Boxes

We're just boxes.

We’re all just boxes

Empty boxes

Longing to be filled.

 

We’re all searching for something--the freedom feeling

We search here and there, up and down before we realize it’s not there

We find lust and disguise it with love

We find power and defile it beyond recognition

We find drugs and alcohol but it leads nowhere

We fill ourselves with dated somethings and frivolous anythings

But they’re actually meaningless nothings

Thus our box is empty

 

But then we find we have lots of boxes.

Filled to the top, damaged, and stacked end to end.

Improperly filed memories of past lives

Hurts, scars, and bruises

Cuts and scratches.

Boxes we’ve carried from life to life, place to place

Boxes that weigh us down

Boxes we don’t need.

 

Why do we fill on emptiness?

Why do we carry our baggage on our sleeve?

Why do we accept this as life as if there is nothing better out there?

 

Boxes, boxes, and boxes.

Step by step by step.

Breath by breath.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”