And I wonder if they'll write stories about me.
About the tales of my adventures,
The people I've met,
The hearts I've broken,
The tears I've shed,
I wonder if and when they tell of the bad,
They don't forget the good, too.
You see, I'm not perfect.
The image that I've seamlessly wrapped myself in isn't all bad.
The image of me that once existed in people's minds,
I am not responsible for.
Because while I am many things,
I am also loving,
Many people of my past forget that I am human and so are they.
I focused so much on my mortality,
I forget that I, too, make mistakes just as much as the next person.
I just hope that where my legs may carry me,
I am kinder,
I am softer,
I am less angry at who I was and focus on who I am.
Sometimes I forget that there is a lot of good in the bad.