Sitting under the sad old tree.
Thinking about what all these thoughts might mean.
What does life have to do with me?
Am I here for a reason?
Why does anything have to exist?
Is my life just treason?
Looking at the dark sky.
Atop that hill.
Will it rain.
Should I keep still?
What is the point?
We don’t have much time.
Is Earth just a test?
Of what’s right and wrong?
Mum wants me home.
But home just hurts.
Maybe I’m depressed.
Or just moody.
These teen years don’t get any easier
Josh's Writing Works 