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Who has molded my clay?

Give me your guidance on the seventh day

But I won't pray

Superior being, you might be

Maybe you're able to foresee

But I worship no Creator

And I bow to no master

Why have a been created?

What is my purpose?

Oxygen, carbon hydrogen

Nitrogen, calcium phosphorus

Yet, overflowed by void

Have I been created?

For what purpose? By Whom?

Are you watching from above?

Or from anywhere else?

Is this existential crisis

A trial you've set for me?

A plan from the almighty.

Or am I the one turning questions

Into prisons?

If you exist on a higher plane of consciousness

No one will ever have the answers

So, should I stand proud and seize the day?

Should I suppose no one molded the clay?