• I dream that my life will be great in the end.
    That my fantasies will be realised.
    I desire to be something that I'm not.
    I want to experiance something that I cannot touch.
    I want to see something that may be there.
    I want to hear a voice that may never come.

    My fantasies are delicate roses.
    If you touch them too hard they wilt.
    If you breathe on them they fall.
    If you walk on them they vanish.
    They become meaningless.

    I know the pain that you delt to me.
    I know the scorn I feel from my memories.
    This scorn stares at me with hate in it's eyes.
    With each instance that goes by another scar appears.
    My scars aren't visable.
    But they are trully noticable.

    Because you smothered my dreams.
    I have nothing left.
    I have become a hollow shell.
    My dreams helped me to be me.
    They made me feel good about myself.

    What's the use of making a new fantasy when someone willl just kill it again?
    Why even bother trying to preserve it when it's as good as dead?