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.
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