I sit here in a mood, a mood of defeat, confusion, elation, and discovery.
My mind tries to understand itself, so I might understand myself.
What my values are, what I myself am,
Are confused with what I was told, with what I am supposed to be.

I stare here at my words and my thoughts are fleeting,
What was conviction has turned to numbness,
What was me has turned to ash.

I try to remember my somber thoughts on the long walk home,
They come to me slowly, grudgingly, so I let them flow.

I am a man…no…I am not a man, not by my definition, not by how I define the world.
A man knows who he is, what he is made of.
And a man can only know himself through utter failure.
And that failure cannot be sought; it cannot be obtained through pursuit of it,
It must slap him in the face, a sucker punch to the ribs, a knife in the back as he aims for the stars.

Only when a man knows that he is human can he become a man,
Man cannot make himself a god, instead he can only pretend until he falls on his face,
And discovers who he really is, what really counts, what the sum of his mind, body, and soul is like,
For a man is not just his mind, he is not just body, and he is not just his soul.
They are all apart of him, and to define a man by a piece of himself is folly.

Take not these words as fact, for they are the ramblings of a person with an artistic mind,
They will not lead you to truth; they will only lead you to a dark corner of your mind,
Where who you really are is asking you if you believe in them.