Do you ever wonder why you exist?
Am I the only one that thinks like this;
Are the questions I ask answered, already?
Is there some magic out there that
Can show me why I feel this way?
All my senses are not my own;
They belong to someone else.
Why do I simply give them up?
Because I believe the human feeling
Is there to confuse you from the highest of truths.
The Good Book tells us we are not your own.
Does this meaning contain "THE" truth?
Hard-sought by every, living soul.
If we are not our own selves,
Then, simply put, whose are we?
Those that are saved and those that are damned?
Can it be explained away, so simply?
Do we even have the choice to which we are?
The answer cannot lie within ourselves,
Because then there is no answer at all.
If we were created to be confused,
What sick, acidic game is being played?
Is there any meaning or hope for life?
The ones with answers must speak out,
But if they are not their own;
Then who is truly speaking for them?
Maybe one day we will all see,
What the meaning of this life and why.
Until that time we scurry about
Hoping not to be squashed under the foot
Of Death and everything else that can kill us.