Why was I born with a crooked spine?
I ask myself sometimes.
It makes it hard for me to sit upright,
It makes it hard for me to stand for long.
At night when I sleep, I toss and turn
to find the right spot to catch a cradle song.
I wake up with a variety of headaches
That range from subtle throbs to loquacious poundings,
My bowels are always a constant battle,
Cos' moving it always needs a little coaxing.
I've always believed in purposes in our lives,
Be it a simple gesture of love or compassion.
While we carry baggage of all shapes and sizes,
The end comes sooner than we'd like to imagine.
Despite pain or agony some people strive for gold,
Making life easier for you and me and all the rest.
But sometimes, comes someone, who makes it old,
As though life is nothing but a series of mandatory tests.
What's your purpose, where do you go?
Do you have a home, how far do you roam?
What's your purpose, what do you do?
Do you strip someone naked to see his hue?
What's your purpose, do you want to be a superstar?
Do you spread joy or do you leave behind scars?
What's your purpose, are you timid or are you bold?
Would it make any difference if you were born without a soul?