What's this? My mind deceives me.
I dance with my thoughts, cling to them tightly,
Then push them away.


What's this, but a distant memory,
Daring to creep back,
Haunting me.


Our dandelions grow,
They spread like a plague.
But what's this?
December,
And they have withered away;
My only souvenir.


So proud are we,
Members of this generation.
Doing anything to protect
This facade that they all see.
But what's this? Could it be
That I want you to notice
My not-so-subtleties?


It is so, but it seems
You don't see what I see.
It appears that the tables have turned.


What's this? The once strong and independent,
Becomes the one who is unsure.
I suppose this is what I deserve.