Our Human Existence

We put blank pieces of paper in front of us
and wait for answers to come and present
themselves in words that form sentences,
or sometimes instead, questions we hadn’t
even thought to ask ourselves, or anyone
else, for that matter, that the pieces of paper,
if we stare long enough, we find, stare back
until it becomes a blinking, “don’t blink!”
contest of wits, or maybe it’s stamina, this
whole writing process of trying to convey
some kind of meaning, some kind of sense,
is in the way we arrange the typography
I guess, of this; our human existence.

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