I’ve never been satisfied with myself,
Always wished I’d be a more exciting book on the shelf.
But I’m not.
Sometimes I’d laugh louder than anyone else,
And smile brighter than the brightest of stars in the darkest of nights;
But it all meant nothing.
I felt an immense emptiness.
And as time progressed, the worse it became;
I started telling lies without guilt or shame.
Even worse, it drove me…
Today I can’t decipher between the lies or truth
That my stories might have had.
Today I don’t know what is real and what isn’t.
I try to make sense of my mental mess but how do I expect them to understand,
When even I cant?