I Don't Know Why I Write

Churning, that's all life really is.
Just a burning, then nothing left to give.
Time is fleeting, like water through a sieve.
I've found the present, simply to be an Indian-gift.

Why fill our eyes with stars,
Only to dash them from the sky?
Our hearts plaque and harden,
With the dreams left to languish and die.
I don't want promises of Heaven,
Most promises lead to lies.
Just as we promise ourselves to be better,
And still in vain we try.

Aspiring, perpetually toward the sun,
Falling, as does everyone.
Failing, the raspy breathes, aching bones.
Clinging, to one last dream of finding home.