• 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?