In all of the madness that I see, and all of the nonsense that surrounds me,
I look hard to find meaning in the ever increasing insanity.
Is there a place for me?
I read to feel a kinship with the world around me,
I read to find hidden beauty in the most desperate of times.
In every eye that locks with mine, and every last soul I pass on the coastline,
I see the shambles of regret, the sheer joy of living, but also an emptiness.
Is there a point to this?
I write to be an unlikely companion for the eyes trapped in darkness,
I write to radiate a spark of hope in the eyes of the empty: humanity.