I keep telling myself what I know to be true.
That I will not be here forever and ever.
And that one day I will be all which I endeavor to do.

You see, little old me never applied to me.
Because I am young and I am tall.

The world which I've yet to know stretches out before me.
And yet all I want to do is find the inner peace which sets me free.
The kind of peace which allows me to travel and return again without wanting to flee.

I have found such peace to a certain degree, but it's not enough.
My appetite is unsatisfied by this snack of life, and I doubt myself.
That I could possibly organize and properly depict the entirety of this thing called self.

Who am I kidding?

I'm just a man who keeps telling himself.
And that is the trick, to making the words in my stomach stick.
Like wild rice, are my thoughts to me.
But to find their way into the dish of life, will this not satisfy the appetite in me?

No. Because no hollow words from this hungry man will appease, the hunger for perfection in me.