I leave behind the dream.

Only to find it's something I can't live without.

Then I return, mending my snapped heart's strings.

No matter how hard I try, I can never purge myself of my doubts.

I want to hate this fantasy.

I hate it, and all the false hopes it gives me.

Why can I never just face reality?

Will someone just explain this to me?

I'll never grow out of this I'm sure.

Who came up with the notion that people just grow out of their problems anyway?

Locking your problems away in the subconscious of your mind has never been a cure.

There are just some problems stuck, some trials that are here to stay.

I don't expect to get an answer.

Nobody wants to admit they're broken.

Crippling doubts and vicious lies spread like cancer.

I grasp at any remaining stability, hold is close to my heart as a token.