How foolish are spoken words, 

they exist solely in writing but are meant to be recited. 

Prisoners to a page, with each pen stroke their chains are tightened

In their confinement, they act like the words on other pages for their pain to ease

God must look at me like that sometimes, a clueless car trying to sail the seas,

 in search of its many, vain treasures 

He knows what I am, so I should seek His Kingdom instead of my pleasures

 So, what is the way forward?

 God knows, and you know what? That's reassuring

 My rather randomised Rubik's cube called life is in the mighty and powerful hands of the Almighty,the King of         

 Maybe, it is not so random and maybe finding my calling or purpose is not going to be such a tumultuous task