Someday, when I’m old enough,
none of these would even matter:

the women I could’ve ****
but was emotionally unstable to do so

the dream of being a great writer
where everyone would dream of
giving me a head

the people who forced their own ways inside
my head

the romantic times where I should’ve
let my ****** feelings win rather than
regretting it afterwards

the chances I wasted telling the truth

the frustration in life and
the lie about how I was manning it well

the friends who is no more than words

ambitions I lost during my upbringing

my unhealthy relationships
and state of being

wild obsessions

the real truth that nobody will
ever notice

disgust towards people I used
to look up to

fear of getting judged

and lastly,

hoping.