There’s always a question but rarely an answer thats true. Maybe I’m a fool to think that I know who is who, but when I ask a question I’m troubled in thought of you. A thought that’s painfully endearing, like a rose stemmed with thorns, expect I can never see the flower bloom. Through the pain there will be triumph, but the pain doesn’t scare me, the thought of you being fabricated is what impairs me. For I am nothing but a man with questions and no cause, a fraud perhaps sitting idly letting my thoughts hinder my means for survival. Born into a system of governance, war, and corruption. Is there really free will when I have no choice but to live in it, think in it, feel in it, be in it? They tell you right from wrong harboured by punishment, “if you don’t follow me, you will be doomed, theres no flourishment”. But like the rose I am stemmed with thorns, had glimpses of petals but questions caused  my stems to keep growing and growing. The thorns grow longer and have a finer point, some might call it refinement, but it’s really just pressure that causes sharpness. A thorn covered stem with no flower in sight. Some try to nurture it but get caught up in the deceitful hope that maybe one day this stem will result in a beautiful rose, but as each person tries they eventually realize that the stem just grows and grows, no rose, you were right.