Post Dramatic Dreamining Dissaray

Sometimes, I remember why I hate myself-

I've deducted that I can tolerate the brattiness

and withstand the immaturity-

but what I absolutely loathe about me is:

that I'm a dreamer.

Perhaps it wouldn't be such a loathsome trait

if it didn't elevate my hopes to a point that even on a pedestal,

I wouldn't be able to obtain.

Inevitably, reality will strike; it always does, and singes me at the spot I stand.

I realize life would be less complicated if I could be lethargic.