The purpose of living has always been up for debate.
It’s always been humans making use of their lives
to ponder the reasons why we’re alive at all.
It’s always about knowing
the “why” and the “how,”
in the process failing to
see the “should” and the “will.”
It’s easy for us to agree that
the world is a canvas;
malleable and flexible,
blank and waiting—yet
we’re so desperate to find an answer to our reality
that we forget that
there’s more to existing than clawing at
infertile soil and dormant seeds, more than
painting our own rain and sunshine, more than sobbing
on our knees to marble and gold.
It’s ironic when you think about it,
there’s not much more to life
than going through the motions
and yet
there’s so much more to life
than just existing. They always say
that there’s a difference between living
and existing,
but when was the last time anyone actually stopped to realise it?

It’s not a lot that I can give, not a lot that I have,
It’s just a drop in the bucket toward my goal to be better.
But even so, I wish I could give more than I’ve given myself,
Everything I have and anything I’ve had

So it didn’t go to waste
Rotting in a corner, in a room, in a space
That I can never go to again,
Or rather don’t want to go to once more

But rather reminisce about
Something that isn’t the burden
And weight that’s taken place in my heart
When I can’t look at someone else and say

I’ve done them right for once.
Futile, as my efforts are
‘Cause until now there’s not a lot I can find
That would be worth the effort or time

Others have to wait for something
As big as beating cancer,
as small as a birthday,
And from someone like me
On a day like that, of all days.

But I can give myself
And I can be here,
Forever, however long that is,
If someone would like,
I can be