I've had money before,
But the questions didn't stop.
I've had freedom and the whole world to myself.
But it didn't.
I've had friends, girlfriends,
And I've been involved in passions I like.
But the void.
The questions.
They didn't stop.

I've travelled I should say.
I've switched personalities.
I've been so devoted to the church,
I've been out of the church,
I've dug my fingers into histories;

African history.
Asian history.
White history.

I've concerned myself with politics and psychology and philosophies...
But still. The void. It lingers.

Something inside says something isn't right,
Something questions. Something needs to be fed;

Perhaps a yearning for meaning,
Perhaps for understanding,
Perhaps for home.

Everywhere,
Anywhere,
Sitted right by my side, asking,

“But when shall I be fed?
When shall my questions, ever get answered?"

It's difficult to wake to the same blue sky every morning,
To post some statuses,
To wash your face,
Eat,
Date,
And just live.

It difficult to watch tv and be okay,
Have money and be okay,
To be home and say ,“ Yes! Now it all sums up!"

It's a child inside,
Asking the same questions over and over and over,

“What's here,
It says,
“But what's here. Logophile?"

They say I need to get used to being satisfied.
By money,
And relationships,
And religion,
And friends. They say.
I just need to find it all in those,
Bury my face in them like you do in water,
And let go. But I suffocate.
I mean. Wouldn't you??

I suffocate. And it is air.

I have to lift my head back into it,
Back into the questioning/

The child .

And it says,

“Felix. But what is here?
What is all this. What is you?"