I build forts out of blankets and chairs.
I imagine realities; that aren't really there.
I am not crazy, but happy instead.
my life is so perfect, but all in my head.
my eyelids are shut; my mind on its own
I wake in the morning with an agonized groan.
my feet are blistered and my bad knee still hurts.
I wake to remember everything bad still lurks.
What I hate in the world are the false accusations.
The unkowing, the aching, the promised destinations.
I suppose what I need, is to first decide
what's more important: my dreams or my pride?
I would like to just live in my blankets and forts,
to live in a bubble with no news or reports.
innocently and freely; never with doubt
the absolute cringing pain of heartahe, I can do without.
What doesn't kill you makes you stronger
but with all this pain, it's not like I'll live longer...
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