(untitled)

Just something I put to paper months ago

Existence is but a dream.
One from which we will never wake.
An endless corridor filled with mistakes and regret.
Fruitless attempts of living the lie of existence.
But the past is the past.
I am who I am.
A man who has yet to be.
Not one who is yet undone.
I shall speak no more of misery and woe.
Loathing and hate.