Sometimes, it's childish
Very often unrealistic
Some of them say that's naive
They also can call me immature
Only because I'm fantasizing a lot
But I don't care for the individuals
Who don't know who really I am.
Maybe I'm too sensitive,
Maybe I'm funny to other people,
But at least, I'm positive
So the others can talk whatever they want.
But the truth is,
They even don't know anything about me,
They really don't know what is under the surface
And what really lays inside of me.
I learned that they really don't care
Long ago, for thousand times, through my life
While they laughed at me and my thoughts
I know, they didn't know, didn't undestand
But I don't care for any of them, no more.
Only what matters is
That I know who am I
And I feel sorry for them really,
Cause they will never know me for real,
They will never know that the person they have meet
Has a special soul, soul of an poet.
Poetry is my best imagination product,
My mind is that amazing creator number one
But without this poet's soul all of that
Wouldn't be possible, without that imagination
I could never create any of my works
So thank you lord for giving me this dreamy soul.
Underneath the poets soul
You never know what is hiding
While something of it isn't used for creating art,
Until something from my soul turns into written poems
Then you will know a very little piece of my soul.
My art are my poems, my stories
They are the only way for others
To get me know better
Maybe then they could understand
Who really I am,
Only trough my poets soul.
