Nobody knows the real me, not my family, not my friends, nobody. But in this strange reality the nobody that I thought was nobody, is actually somebody, just somebody in which I do not know; for when it comes down to it somebody out there in this cruel world knows me; not me as a person, but me as a soul, the know my feelings. They feel the same way I do, do the same things I do, try to hide something that they hope nobody expects because they know nobody would accept. We live in our parents’ mistakes, nobody and I, and lie, to ourselves, to our friends. Soon we will drown, in our ocean of lies, in the overlaps and own mistakes just trying to be accepted by the popularity. But the popularity doesn’t want us, it wants our downfall. Popularity wants us to suffer in the way that the blacks suffered the whites and the women suffered the men. Just as fast as it accepts us it will pick us up in its serpent like tentacles and pummel us to a fine powder of a soul labeled nobody for in the end we are all the same. We are all nobody.