Sometimes, I pretend that
I am something more
than the truth
What bliss did that give me
—it was better to live
in my own fantasy
But it seems harder
to get out and live in
what I call my reality
I am not happy
in my own truth
I certainly am not content
with my lot
So I pretend that
I am nothing more than
someone who had made it
What illusion did that give me
—it was better to die in ignorance
than to have found out
I truly am a nobody
In what I call my home
I am no longer me
Inside my soul, curling in my heart
I certainly am not satisfied
nor am I the fulfillment
of my own story