I laid in bed,

staring at the ceiling,

thinking about the night’s events

cornered myself

into believing

I was nothing at all.

I wanted to ask

what is it I did?

what caused an intrigue

when inside

all I could feel was pain.

I grabbed

the hair on my head

with my hands

and wanted to scream

who am I?

I’m an elder gentleman

with no passion

for the future.

I’m doing

what I do

because I want to

not because

I intend to.

Who am I

would be

my words that

become redundant

in the minds of anyone

giving thought

an extra edge.