[untitled]

where to begin?
with the conflicting questions
that consume my mind?
or with some honesty
that will turn to white lies?

it is kind of funny
how writing is easy when
we allow our ignorance to shine,
when we speak to an audience
unknown...

we have got an infinite canvas
to print who we are
and what we stand for,
yet, the more we write,
the more we understand,
that we don't understand ourselves at all

we may speak with some prestige,
lay claim of our innocent nature,
or morally sound existence...

even in our confessions,
we try to label ourselves as victims,
and see ourselves as saints
with our openness of "honesty"

we lose touch with our connection
to ourselves, by wearing
the socially acceptable mask
we form from everybody's thoughts,
excluding our own....

who are we really living for, anyways?
why does all the happiness seem staged?
what does it mean to be free?
when do we not feel ashamed?
how do we become what we can not see?
where to begin?