For why

For why I can't be comforted by mere imagination...

There's still that desire in me that wants the real thing...

I can't be comforted. For why I want it real.

I won't ever get out of this incongruity. I know and I just know...

For the rest of my life, I won't ever get out.

But time will tell what will happen to this weary heart.

If this weary heart will go on with the blow of the wind or it will go against it and fly up high and away.

I won't even know but I just know I won't ever get out of my life.

The choices I made so far are one thing, my indulgence is another.

As I go about my chores and commitments, I will be sad and lonely.

And only time will tell how long that will be.

There was a time I believed that in time, my circumstances will fix themselves...

But that won't happen.

Not until I do something about it.

Bu my... I'm so lost and lonely. In this lifetime only someone can come and make me smile from time to time.

And that someone will be different each time.

I'm struck by the reality that life isn't poetry. Yet it presents itself as such.

For why I can't beat it out of me, I'm still hesitating to accept life as it is...

Our actions are not being done by a pen. They're being danced by a pen with permanent ink.

I've lived my share of foolishness. I am afraid to be foolish again. And I go to my imagination. But it won't ever make it real.

And I sit here unhappy and lonely. At the same time most of the time alone with nothing but imagination.

When you spot me, you should know, come find me where I am.

Then again, I'm struck again by the reality of life. Life is not poetry yet it presents itself as such.

And I resort to my imagination and live my fantasies there.

But for why I can't be comforted by imagination because I want I real.

But the reality is just so cruel. Or not.

Because it's self-inflicted... The loneliness- it is self-inflicted. Or not. Just maybe, this is my luck.