My life in question

This is just how I feel most often when Im thinking of something else i need to jot down, a thought, a poem, or what have you.

How many times will I be drawn to the page?

Nothing ever gets clearer with each passing of age.

 

It seems as though the older I get

I'm more confused and nothings right just yet.

 

All these questions, burning through my skull,

could hardly be answered, and never in full.

 

So why do I let them invade all my thoughts?

Constantly, tieing my stomach  in knots.