Play, I Must!

So, I am frequently told that
the world's a stage and we
are mere actors, playing out
the scripted parts
allotted to us.
As actors with scripted roles,
we at least have the freedom
to emote the way, unique to us,
thus imparting our own touch to
the character we play.
The two questions that I am
always faced with-
Who are the audience?
And, who are we-?
Are we the characters we enact?
 Or are we the actors behind the people
we portray?
I still do not have answers to my
questions but
regardless of that,
I often find myself striving to please
an audience, I am not even sure exists;
I often get so carried away,
playing the role that I believe is
mine to act out that I
forget about my original self,
but then again, did I ever know who
I was?
Am I just the character living out
my life in the length of the drama that
I found myself to be a part of, or
Am I the actor who has the freedom
to be different people?
The character that I play is trapped
in the situation that his life is.
The actor within must work to
please whoever he believes his
audience is
Is the one better than the other?
Do they both exist like the two
opposing poles of a magnet,
brought together by
the strength if nature?
Or like some would have us believe,
neither exists?

A Strange Thing Called Desire

Tired of the yellow, I longed for the gray
That night, with the desire wide awake in my heart,
after arduous conscious efforts,
I slipped into unconsciousness
With the outer world still and actionless,
the spirits of the unconscious took over.
In the garden of my heart,
with seeds of deep desires already sown,
the spirits did all to tend to the tender lives but
mind you, desires grow like nothing else ever does
As an answer to the tending, the seeds threw open
and the emerging shoots gripped all of my body
with the strength and pace of light
I trembled within, not with the pain though,
It was something else-
Something all have experienced and
Something none could explain.
I was no different;
I felt happiness and pain intertwined,
the feeling so immense and so alive
that it forced my eyes wide open.
All was quiet- within
Outside, I was faced with a noise
I had longed for and loved more than
the inner peace
There was pleasant pelting of
pure droplets on the thirsty land
Looking at the dry earth, slowly
soaking in the wetness and
emanating the charming, muddy flavour
that it always does after the first rain,
My desires were quenched, in every way I desired.   

The Babel Lot; Or Are They?

They are like a million wild flowers,
breaking out of nothingness-
I never planted the seeds for any;
They are all over my garden.
They look pretty and
give my garden an enthralling,
purple-yellow hue
But the daze of the beauty aside,
I don't know them, any of them;
I don't know what they might do to-
My beloved garden,
to all the ones I did plant, with my own hands;
The ones I watered and looked after and
watched grow.
Are the wild ones worth keeping just for their
supposed beauty?
Will they be good to my own?
Will they get along or
will they just spread across, all over,
murdering the ones I love so deeply,
appealing to the eyes or not, who cares?
They appeal to my being, my soul and my view;
I love them as dearly as the priciest emotion possible.
What if the wild ones don't actually mean any harm?
Will I ever know?
Do I even want to know?
Who knows?