Is it odd?

The eternal question, merely, a question,
any question that requires an answer.
There must a word stain the cloth that was white
to explain in vain a subtlety of existence.

untitled

This glazed night is left without trust,
there is no foreclosure, all thought is closed
and violent mishaps do not surrender easily.
My mind relays relations feverishly
and will not surrender easy.
Attention, fraught with contemplated
intention, neither, states existence.
The Steam Whistle declares it's action.

I cannot but with scorn construe
malignant, asinine substance; you.

From notebooks breathe the acid sigh
that words someday may tell us lies:

"They sound so empty
devoid of life,
but these, the ones
who end my strife.
They are my friends
derived from ends."