Like an incessantly curious three year old
I question relentlessly:
why do babies have to grow up?
where is my deceased mother really, now?
why can't I just transport to Sweden to visit a friend?
what the heck is my friend thinking, enabling her druggie son?
how do I know all the things I do?
when will I reach the end of my therapeutic journey?
Why do I have to have all these damn 'isms'?
(Written and posted for NaPoWriMo, Day 14, "Write a question poem", 04/14/14)