I’m trying to find a soul,
Wandering and lost.
For the meaning and purpose of every insect on this land. The curiosity is almost never ending.
This search, this desire.
Are we really meant to live in four walls?
Did we free ourselves from the womb to be choked in our own breath?
Must all of this be so cliché?
Do both a village wife and the president of the United States really go to heaven?
Do they both really possess a soul?
Or are they both individually possessed?
Both by dominations, one a man and other with a country full of men
Both weighed down by duties of their own kinds.
One on a bullock cart and the other in a limo.
Do you actually remember your wedding day as a celebration or was it a union of two sacrifices? Another hassle.
Are you the river or the ocean?
What if you learn that you are indeed the bank where the two meet?
Is there a word to define passion?
Must you always disgrace my love for anything and everything?
Must we always have to cry for what is not ours and stand tall for what we do?
Does it not become awfully heavy? This burden of a false world?
Must this piece of writing have a name for you to be allured to?
Why can I not take pleasure in the way this pen presses its hard self against the soft paper?
Can we not be like animals? If we do have the instincts?
Are we not them?
Are they not us?
Cruelty is dangerous, animal-ism isn’t.
Why can I not be happy with what I have and be drunk with these words?
Do you not see how utterly beautiful they are and how fondly and madly in love they are?
Must we have a licence for everything?
Why can I not find my home?
How do I better enjoy the insanity of myself?
You the wondrous soul,
In me you have found your home,
Your lust has taken its toll.