(135) why?

there is something ancient about this questioning
this aching empty fear
of the darkness
the essential throbbing
what are we but the beating
the blood
the quivering?

134

I am restless beyond measure
I fidget perpetually
picking at scabs I refuse to let heal
I can no longer hide the fact that I have nothing
want nothing (or everything or something I don’t yet understand)
I measure time by the growth of my hair
brown roots under red paint