What am I doing?

A Stock-Take of the Morning

Sitting on a vehicle that transports the masses,
knowing not what awaits the future,
but yet expecting the same for the rest of the day,
thoughts of a warning nature cast over,
and I ask myself,
What am I doing here?

They sit and organize themselves,
the suits, the skirts, the bags, the shoes,
we all sit and drown ourselves in a sea of sorrow,
but we never taste the same drops,
cos we know not each other or past or present or future,
and our common destiny for death is not shared,
neither is our passion for our own life,
to be consumed by the trip that today brings us,
the question remains in my mind,
does anybody know what they are doing?

The whiff of a perfume like poison,
the shoes stamper like chatter,
I sit above and watch as they clamer for the ride,
I feel their pain and sense their irritance,
too many people rushing to the same destination,
the sun in their eyes can't lift a black face,
and the noise doesn't smoothen their worries,
we all are in for the same ride,
but yet I say to myself,
am I really doing anything different from you?

Wheels are churning,
the air-con blasts its chilly air onto my face,
I hear the voice of the newscaster,
they hear it too and allow her voice to occupy our silence,
but somehow my ears pick up a different tune,
the seduction of her voice frightens me,
her calm demeanor in relaying the news of horror,
her common sense manner of speaking about senselessness,
should I laugh or cry and be judged a lunatic,
insanity, madness, despair, sadness, melancholy,
how can these be my partners,
on my daily journey every morning,
when all I am simply asking is,
what are you doing to me?

Time is ticking,
we all must meet our destination lest we be punished,
but how can someone else be worthy enough,
have we lose every understanding of ourselves,
that we allow an ordinary person or a fictional entity,
to tell us how we should spend our time,
the news, the man and the radio can not speak to us,
our consciousness doesn't run independently anymore,
our emotions continue to be played to their dictations,
have I allowed my own interior self to be torn and played,
as I listen to the voice of seduction,
as I sit on the seat of a mechanical death machine,
as I see the eyes of boredom and restlessness,
as I smell the air of sterility and dryness,
my heart only sinks deeper into the void,
for there is now only one question,
and answers appear so distanced and out-of-reach,
there is only one person asking,
what am I doing?