What’s The Point?

What’s the point of trying,

If it all disappears without trace?

“The act itself matters,” you say?

Bullshit—it always ends the same.

What’s the point of speaking,

If your voice keeps silencing mine?

If every word that I spew,

Just flew over your ear?

What’s the point of reaching,

If I’m just walking in a circle?

If every time I reach for something,

I was left empty handed?

What’s the point of fighting,

If we’re just ruining what’s already ruined?

If every argument ends the same,

Leaving nothing but more cracks?

What’s the point of waiting,

If time is running out?

Maybe, I will find my way out,

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe— It doesn’t matter.

What’s the point of hoping?

I could rewrite this a thousand times,

Make it scream, make it bleed,

And still, I kept coming back here.