It is often talked about but never understood;
Constantly desired but never expected.
We’ve categorized it as a fairytale,
Left our hopes to die with it over time.
But as the young man turns old,
He realizes the truth:
Even fairytales are born out of death.
Pain recorded upon paper so that hope may carry on,
And someone else can right the wrongs.
We want this, yet we hate confessing lack of faith to chase,
Much like I lacked the faith to pursue you.
Stuck in the stasis of paralysis as my heart pled me to leap,
But I weighed my legs down with low self-esteem.
So as the poets before me,
Who emptied their hearts onto the page,
Here, I will lay my hopes to rest,
So that the lessons may carry on to the next generation,
And I can admire you forever
Through the pages of my emptied soul…
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