Killing Life

Who is it, that cannot live with another self,
it is I, that cannot live another self,
I and you are different,
We look different, we wear different,
We talk different, We do different,
Yet, we feel the same.
Why is it, I cannot co-exist,
Why is it, I
Do I not feel the pain?
I do.
Do you not feel the pain?
You do.
Yet, we continue to suffer,
As if, we were always meant to suffer.

Who is this I? Who is this you?
Are these not just confusion of words.
For we all feel a singularity,
Yet the symbols and sounds, confuse us.
We can just be,
Or, we can just be,

Lord, if this is all they will,
Why am I hurt in this process.
I cannot call upon myself to hurt another,
Yet, I continue to hurt all.

Let your divine will,
Shine through this lowly beggar,
Let your omnipresence,
Consume my being.

I wait patiently,
Yearning for your sake,
For I with you,
Is the only farce,
This lowly dirt can see.

Metamorphsis

Why do I write? Why does anyone write? To get fame? I am not sure. I just write. Hoping, if these words are ever discovered, they might understand the amazing fact existence is. The mysteries, the enchantments, and the pains, are all wonderful testaments to the existence.

What wan to say is one thing, and it seems to be the nectar of everything I have said or not said:

Feel.

Feel your heart. Do whatever it takes, even if its a sin, to feel.

Just Feel.

Please, feel.

And, in feeling, you will find presence.

Leave the lowly thoughts,

And, your thoughts will be one with your heart.

Singularity.