I've decided I love you ,but will never be like you. I couldn't. Don't have that in me (and wouldn't want to either). I see the children look up to you. They trust you so much. Believe you could move mountains, and fly if you wanted to. I see the children when you let them down. Like their hopes they saw in you were destroyed. Like you could have saved them, and you chose not to. I get furious all over again. I remember that hurt. Hurt as a child is worse than hurt when you're grown, because it's so new. I remember seeing kids during recess. Laughing with their friends and living in a world that I already knew didn't exist. They probably thought they could fly. Probably believed they could move mountains. They believed anything they were told. I decided I will never be like you. When I say I'll be there, there I will be. When I promise to do something, it's already done. I couldn't stand to look at my child's
I'm not good at feeling If it's needed to be shared. I can't bring someone close, without being scared. I can't quite shape it. It started since birth. It's like my heart's with God's people, but is fresh-out of self-worth. My heart belongs to the world, because I believe in their fate, but I set up self-standards and tend to self-hate. Not an "image" self-hatred or where I am from, but a portrait self-image of who I've become. and it's easy to love and it's easy to say that you shouldn't judge this or act out in this way and it's easy to guide and not so easy to follow and it's not easy to fill your soul when it's hallow. I don't like sharing how I feel. Or who I've become, it's an attention unwanted, that makes me feel dumb. and the dumbness is numb. and the numb is the sum of the amount of good feeling that will never come.
Dreams remind me of a shy child, never speaking his mind. When you talk in your sleep late at night, Dreams try to speak. They inform you of your forgotten world, nestled in the cracks of creativity inside your brain. Improbable improbabilities and whatever what-not’s your inferior part of your brain conjures stimulates within your crevices of your imagination. It implores to be spread onto a mockingly white sheet of paper, Or shared through artwork and other forms of appreciations. It desperately wants you to remember what it was like to be a child. And live in an unreality. When you wake, you say, “What a strange dream I had? What did I dream?” That’s your dreams shying away. It tip toes past your eyes and quietly resides in the back of your mind, And backs up into your invented world, slowly closing the door behind him. Mental Note: Don't let yourself grow up on the inside.
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