THE NOTHING THAT IS EVERYTHING

It's becoming harder to organize my thoughts,

To pen down my ideas in a form to be understood,

The sadness lies in knowing what to say,

But not knowing how to say or mould it,

After that first verse, I already want to stop,

I'm not saying this, the way i want to say it,

Now the voice is getting louder, STOP STOP,

And I do want to stop, I just know I shouldn't,

I was born to write, to teach, to see, to know,

What am I if I don't do these things?,

Just some beautiful wood, waiting to be carved,

A night that isn't dark, and can't be called night,

It's easier to stop, even easier to do what doesn't need to be done,

But hard is the feeling, of knowing you're so much more,

Much more than you've let yourself become, a lost light,

It is easier to start and not finish, than to start and finish,

I chose today to go against it, to do what I should,

To become who I am, who I should be,

And now that I have, I feel I've found my place among the stars,

The very stars that shine, even when they can't be seen,

I choose to live, to be more than just a sight,

And when you stand, the universe stands with you,

When it knows you're ready to swim its consciousness,

It swims it with you, it washes you, it cleanses your soul,

It bathes you in the wisdom and light that is consciousness,

You see, you hear, you breathe, and then you wonder,

What are we doing here?, we wake up, we talk, we eat, we sleep,

We quarrel, we smile, we cry, we rush out each morning,

We come back by night, we sleep, and then we're dead,

Where is all this going, to what end, to what consequence?,

And then perhaps you see it, we're wasting time, ourselves,

We worry over nothing, we're nothing, 

Time can't be wasted anyway, it just sits there,

Looking at us petty our meaninglessness away,

Wondering at what exactly we think we're doing,

When we shout over who wrote this, or who said that,

It just looks at us and wonders, when we wake each morning,

What is it we think we are, what is it we think we're doing,

When we just walk to that tap to get water?,

What we're thinking when we go for that lecture,

It sees the meaninglessness of it all, but perhaps we don't,

It is easier to tell that man to get up and dust himself,

But should we fall, we wait for someone to pick us up,

It is easier to say the moon is dull, than to shine ourselves,

Stand on a mountain, and look down on man,

And you see ants moving, like pieces on a chess board,

Going back and forth, to where, is what they don't know,

They move but go nowhere, and it saddens me,

I am part of this movement, part of this confusion,

Part of this despair, part of this noise,

I move but get nowhere, I walk but I'm standing still,

Where do we think we're going, what are we doing?

What is the sadness about, what is the happiness about?,

What is the fight about, what is waking about?,

What is the struggle for, what is the anger for?

Why are we here, to just walk and go nowhere?

What's the last thought before sleep?,

What is the first thought on waking?,

And with the walk that gets nowhere,

What exactly do we think we're living for?

Time sits and looks at us, perhaps it smiles, perhaps it cries,

At the sadness over nothing, at the noise over everything,

Of the emptiness that is man, of the nothing that is us,

Where everything is nothing in its meaninglessness, and it wonders,

"How man thinks he wastes me,

When all I've done, is sit here and watch him waste himself."