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.