Are we confined at all? Humanity lacking, where to find?
Stuck in this place, mind's grip, slow grind.
So much, myself, in this me-ness deep,
Like a lost limb, my beingness keeps.
Where's its place? This being's claim?
How's it all added up, this hollow game?
What if, truly, I'm less than I am?
Not real at all, a nothing's sham.
No I, no me, just not to be, plain.
Then to be or not, that's the eventual pain.
A void, yeah, us, a freedom's jest,
Not to be, can be, formless, hard to digest.
A soul hunting "what does it mean?"
But we're all the same, it would seem.
Simple, less, just the normal mundane,
We lie, we gather, can't wait to explain.