I used to write every day,
I had a passion.
Every thought was special
It had to go on paper.

Until I met someone,
someone who I thought
Who I thought
could understand me
and my passion.

Not destroy the little of it
that I had received.

Almost all my dreams are gone,
this was the one thing I had left
and it was killed.

Replaced with your dreams and
imperfections.

Not mine.