Cursed

I have a gift that disguises itself as a curse.

I have tuned my imagination so well

that I can imagine what it feels like to be loved by someone who either doesn’t exists or could never be a possibility.

I can imagine it so clearly that I can fee that

person’s arms wrapped around me.

Only to wake up from that world to the cold realization

that I have no one to claim as my love.

I have a curse that strikes at the heart.

It takes the joy I observe and turns it into adagger that stabs my heart.

Making it wake up to the reality that it isn’t for me.

That curse has built a wall around my heart.

A place where the inner me sits curled up in a corner, pale and afraid.

Afraid that the walls will tumble one day and that I’ll be exposed.

So there I sit.

Every once and a while peeking out through a little slit.

But jumping back at any possibility of being discovered or

of being broken.

Some people have a religion, which slowly demolishes the wall

others have a psychiatrist.

I have nothing but a pen, paper and my imagination.

Through these the dark room with only a slit of light

is changed through a projection, placed on the walls.

And a few people created by my imagination, creep in.

I then interact with them; go on adventures and those people I created,

I truly become to love them.

But the uplifting joy and love is short-lived.

The projection stops, the people I create disappear.

And I return to the cold darkness and give in to the sorrow.

But something that wasn’t there before.

A glimmer of anticipation for the next projection.

Because with them the inner me feels what reality has, so far, denied me.

The feeling that I’m being loved without obligation.

Until that dream world becomes my own

I’ll continue to interact with the projection

and live my adventures through a pen.