Poetry?

A minute ago, I finished reading my first ever poetry book.
It took me much longer than I thought to reach the last page.
Not it’s a terrible book (it’s Charles Bukowski, how it could be suck), it’s just… I don’t feel like reading anymore.
I’ve never had this feeling before. Hence, it feels strange to me. Somehow, it feels like sitting on the porch and staring at a foreign car.

I don’t know whether it’s for the grey sky or those old poems, I feel sad and meaningless. 
“Meaningless”, I’ve used this word too many times recently. People think that I’m at the age of seeking a purpose for the existence of this world and myself. Little do they know that I already set up my shabby tent and accepted my fate of forever getting lost in this red desert. 

To me, life is absurd anyway, long before I read books on that…

Am I happy with this reality?
Yes, I am, no matter how sad and indifferent I seem to be.
There’s nothing called a paradox here. It’s simply how human beings are sculptured from the beginning of time.
So many attempts to get to know the true face of a person, is there anyone who can cross the finish line?

Obscurely, I had become so fond of Charles Bukowski’s genius.
The wave of sadness and anguish goes much farther and digs a deeper hole than I thought.

4:09 pm, 13/9/21.