I'm a pitiful little dreamer I am;
Head always filled with notions,
Nose hidden between pages,
Feet following in the steps
of a hopeless romantic.

I'm starting to accept the fact
that I will never be loved
to the degree that I love.

I've grown cold to the disappointment
but I'm not quite numb,
Still an ache accompanies this feeling.

Overthinking and mistaking
normal events as purposeful intent
Trying to fill a seemingly impossible expectation;

Or perhaps it's just me,
I'm too much.
Good, but not quite enough.
Loved, but still somehow,
second hand.

And I cant help but wonder
If I'll forever wander,
smiling,
but forever accompanied
by a hidden sadness

The only thing
that loves me so dear,
is the emptiness
that is birthed
from the fear
of doubt,
That I could ever be loved
to a depth such as this,
To how I dream it to be.