I tried; tried so hard to be perfect.
I wanted to be everything you wanted but I hated everything that I became.
I tried to justify what I was doing.
I thought maybe I would grow to like the new me better than the old me.

This new me was everything I wasn't.
She was: confident, flirty, ****.
She was so comfortable and open that she didn't care if people saw what was underneath everything,
But I do.

I hated this new me.
I hated the old me.
Everyone I knew saw this confident young woman but underneath, hiding, was the real me.
A scared, self conscious, little girl.

I eventually gave up trying.
I couldn't handle pretending to be someone I wasn't.
It was too hard.
That's a lie; being someone else was easy. Too easy.
It was so easy I felt wrong doing it.

You eventually gave up interest.
You said I had changed
I wasn't the girl you knew
I wasn't the girl you loved
You didn't know who I was anymore
It made sense, I didn't know who I was anymore

It hurt, hearing you say those words
I spent so long trying to be someone you could love
and then you ended up falling in love with someone who wasn't me.

I am incurable romantic. I live in a world of my own.  I live in the turn of the 20th century where ladies are ladies and gentlemen are gentlemen and ladies worn dresses, skirts, and beautiful lace blouses and pearls. Gentlemen did not think of *** until they married the girl.  The gentlemen gives flowers to their ladies and they sit on their parent's swing.
They take walks around the block during autumn , summer and spring.

Gone all the days of the incurable romantics, gone all the days of the morals and values, because society is in such decay it is sorry to see it  go down hill.

Feelings are just feelings,
They don’t stay where you want them to,
Try to hold them back and they start a fire behind your eyes
That burns with a fury of passion,
Before extinguishing inside.

Releasing them when they want to be freed seems to be
The best way else they seethe,
Writhe in agony,
Betwixt between the soul
And reality.

If only the world were allowed to be that honest
But it’s no good being an idealist about these things,
I’ve felt the hurt and hope it brings
And it never goes anywhere,
You can never be too honest with someone,
“Sometimes the truth hurts”
People say,
I’d take the pain of truth
Over what lies do
Any day.

Intentions hidden under false smiles and hugs and handshakes
They’re not doves they’re feather coated snakes
Slithering out of a sleeves cover
Lies sliding a little further
Is it easier to go along with the lies that we tell each other,
Than be honest with love like we’re sisters and brothers…

…I hate that I have written this,
From me,
A man with misfortune,

an idealist.