I hate that my expectations
Stretch beyond the realm of reality.
Landing somewhere amongst the clouds
Of fantasy and make believe.
I hate that my heart is empty.
I blame the cultivators of imagination.
I blame the encouragers of dreaming big
And reaching for the stars.
I hate that the Universe cannot
Contain the plans I have for myself.
Or even the plans for the plans
For the plans for myself.
I hate that fantasy fails
And emptiness reigns in my heart forever.
I hate that failure launches my hopes
I hate that I know
That the problem is, in fact, me.
And that the only way to fix it
Is to fix me.
I hate that people say
That I'm wonderful and amazing as I am
Simply because they don't want to face
The truth I've discovered.
I hate that I'm right.
I'm tired of listening to my own thoughts
I'm tired of believing I'm something
That I'm not.