The Point of the Poem

Life is short but glorious
So why not write poems of beauty
Rather than romanticizing the unknown?
In all honesty, I’m confused
Why should I write at all? 
Why must I sit in discomfort on this leather backseat 
Pondering the idea of sea monsters with genuine anxiety
Wondering how to tie this moment to my novella of a life
Inquiring why my depression and mania must relate to everything and anything
How do I write a paragraph on a blank wall that I’ve stared at for 17 years? 
And why did I decide to stare? 
Why are we humans forever seeking answers by questioning everything we know, and nothing that we don’t?
How have we allowed ourselves to mature as a society to the point of actual insanity? 

Maybe it’s easier to write about what we know
We devote our lives to these motifs that are so overexposed
Because relation brings comfort
When we are all walking around this mound of dirt with our own plot line in mind,
Stopping along the way to talk of weather or sports stats
We find repose in eye contact 
Believing there’s civility in company
And pretending we know what we were born to do 
Painting clear lines of importance around our personal sojourn 

But it all must end on a low eventually right? 
Opposite of the way we constantly question.....right?
Flipping our tone up in the end as if there is more to say
But the best poets pose questions understanding there will be no answer
Each poem does not end with a concrete period. 
That restricts 
And humans do not like restriction 
But we do not want complete liberation 
With freedom we fear that life is meaningless
And death is abrupt and hollow
Life and death must be tangible through sureness
Because we care to be happy 
As small individuals 
And our race as a whole
Otherwise
What’s the point of finishing the poem?