I could say i’m grateful for the lot that I have, but the predictability of my character says, I probably won’t be.
I am a petulant child, filling out the roundabouts of a crooked life I’ve been hoping to rebuild.
I think of things I will never do.
I lie far more compulsively that honesty could ever justify.
I smile for far more different reasons.
I am the hypocrite I pray not to be.
I am looking for the answers when I should have asked myself the questions.
I look nothing like the youth of literature.
I sigh more then laughter becomes me.
I am but a child who hopes fear can be conquered,
only to continue seeking more fear.