Dust | Poetry Breakdown

Under the same atmosphere,
the same stars, 
I would find myself searching desperately for a shooting star
to send my hopes, wishes, and dreams.
I carried them for miles and
as my feet grew tired,
I looked up at the night sky less –
rather than being a comforting shroud,
the night became like a looming shadow instead. 
The sun became hot and blinding.
The rain drowned and washed me out.
The wind toppled me over. 

When weather is just a routine from the Earth’s
diligence in motion,
my bitterness shaped from carrying my hope,
seemed all for naught. 

I constructed rules that were meant to bend expectations
but all I could think about was “what for”?
What for, what for, what for…
For what purpose does this all amount to
if I’m the same stuff as stars?