Rhythmic, meaningful, cryptic, thought-provoking: everything I strive for when I write. I want to write like that; I want to write like you. Embellished, inflated, fake, stolen: the inevitable final product. How many times have I gone back and deleted? Deleted because it didn’t sound right, or it was too straightforward. How many times have I held back, because I knew it wasn’t what you wanted to hear? How many times have I sat idly by while you say he is one of the good ones; for how long have I allowed myself to believe that?
So I write it down, but for what good? The internet will know.That’s something right? But no consequences will come of it; nothing will change; and no one that matters will know. I will know. But I am a coward; I am a fraud, I am not a good person.
A flawless social filter does not make me a good person; it makes me a mute — to say nothing is to take no chances, to die a man who only I know. You will see a man in the coffin, but I will always feel like a boy. Which is real, the pieced together with borrowed personalities, or the boy who never made it outside of these walls?
I hope someone finds out. I fear that someone will find out. Please, God, someone call me on this game I play, make me answer to the truth.