I’m not special.

somewhere along my turn from youth to present day;

may it be caused by the fairytales I grew up believing in,

the smoke my loved ones have bosted me up with,

or my personal twisted thoughts;

I began to believe I’m destined for more.

my subconscious continuously began whispering in my mind, that I was special.

I can’t pinpoint when it began,

or what caused the initial justification;

but somehow I’ve landed in this pathetic state of believing I’d be destined for more.

thinking my day would come where the other half of my damaged heart would stumble into my line of vision,

and whisk away my heart into their bubble wrapped grasp.

but the truth is,

I’m not special.

theres nothing in my makeup that makes me any more deserving or fit for love.

my fairytale dreams would need to succumb to the realities of my world,

I’d need to get in touch with my distant subconscious;

and unleash my own inner intervention to see the actuality of just how distorted my perception has been of my own self worth.

I’m not special.