Poem(?),,, not sure if this counts as one

From: Rooftop Garden
Now: Room

Last Many Questions

Why did I even come up here?
I did not even do work, or anything
of productive value. How much time
has passed? Why can't I do any
work? Why is no one trying to
find me? Where is the past?

Questions questions, these are
nests of my insecurities.
Questions questions, so many
small questions.
Questions about the world
and how I see the world.

They say you should not question
things you cannot not understand
In order for you to move,
forget, take action.
But if I question so many things
so small all the time, If I try to stop
myself from questioning all the time,
Does that mean I will forever
not understand myself?

There, see, another question.
Irrelevant, pointless, ignore-able
questions. Small. Not important.
If ever I wish to move,
I must stop asking questions,
questions I will never understand.

With the breadth of memory,
consciousness, and wondering,
and tomorrows never-ending,
who could blame me for
failing to understand
what is not meant
to be understood? That
is the the last question for the day,
before I finally move.

[3:16 AM]
Room