it's the right of passage that i seek

any amount of anything is still more than nothing.

what can you say to the clenching of your fists? watching as your knuckles turn white. there can’t really be a man, if he doesn’t exist. he passes me in the halls and rarely in my dreams.

the smile tells me to never underestimate the power of denial. anybody can be a stranger and any moment can become unfamiliar. those you loved, can betray you. “it’s all a fucking mess”, we manage to whisper to ourselves. convincing others that channels scramble due to outside frequencies.

we create our own disasters. at least that’s what you told me, when you created mine. lies become lies as soon as you seek your version of truth. your mass statements of glory and rigid searching of morals, can be defined as anything, but the truth. the truth never hurts as much as lies do.

noble was the man who once walked these halls, but dark were his eyes as he explained me.

if only you could recognize that mass amount of storage you keep vacant. filled that void with some worth and the emptiness shall subside. how does a man that does not exist measure his worth? apparently against my made up schemes. you can’t embrace what you’ve been through in life and therefore you need my bullshit to measure your worth. it’s the elaborated shame that keeps me real and my mistakes that me undeniably human enough to feel.

i have learned to learn and it’s the right of passage that i seek. i’ll never get it, for how can a man be a man, if he ceases to exist? just look at my white knuckles of my clenching fists. i can’t insist that you didn’t do this. oh fuck it, he is just another man that passes me in the halls. at least i think so. it’s a burden of tunnels that i doubt ever end. i don't recommend that you take that route, but if you do, won’t you just acknowledge me, next time you pass me, dear friend?