the feeling of contentment is a lie
this feeling isn’t serenity, peaceful, or reflective, just resentful
resentful that i must exist in a world where my dreams are unreachable
where i can’t fly through the sky, crush mountains, and read minds
where i can’t bend reality to my will, drink the sea, and predict the future
where i can’t learn to love my body for what it is, find pure and genuine love, and just. be. happy.

harsh reality drips through the cracks in my delicate mind
actuality burns the beautiful forest built by my own hands
i screech in desperation, i don’t want to leave, please don’t make me leave
raw terror rips my heart out and yanks me to the surface
forever dooming me to a life of authenticity, not the one perfectly constructed in my head

i watch as the world passes by, a shell of my previous self
each bystander with their own little reality, determining what’s real and what's fake
they worship unproven ideas and favorable theories
nothing is real, and so belief is sacred