The Meaning of Life? 42
I'm writing this because I feel the need to move my hands.
Written for a purpose that is not its own,
I wonder how it feels.
It has no meaning, no reason for existence.
Are we just as meaningless?
Random doodles on a piece of scrap somewhere,
Drawn by a bored hand?
To be remarked on later of how cute,
or sad, or oddly drawn we are?
Has an eraser ever seemed so evil?
A pen so kind?
An artist so important?
Or quite so mad?
Written for a purpose that is not its own,
I wonder how it feels.
It has no meaning, no reason for existence.
Are we just as meaningless?
Random doodles on a piece of scrap somewhere,
Drawn by a bored hand?
To be remarked on later of how cute,
or sad, or oddly drawn we are?
Has an eraser ever seemed so evil?
A pen so kind?
An artist so important?
Or quite so mad?