Not Real

I want to escape. 

This can't be my life.

I'm bored. Unfulfilled.

I can't breath.

Nothing is what I expected.

I live in my head, wishing and praying it was my life.

I wish it was real.

But it only makes sense to me.

Nobody understands. Nobody gets me.

It's lonely. It's sad.

I'm so isolated. I isolate myself.

I want more from this life. So much more.

I'm not where I thought I would be. 

I'm not who I thought I was.

I'm only here to care for others. To take care of someone else's needs.

I'm not complaining. 

But taking care of myself is selfish.

Wanting ore than what I have is selfish.

My desires mean nothing.

They are a problem to be fixed.

They are too much for anyone to care about.

Why can't I be happy?

Is this depression again?

I cry for all that I have missed.

I cry for the person I used to be;

or who I thought I was, rather, who I thought I would be.

But I'm not her. She's not me.

She was just a dream that is as faded and old as I have become.

She's not real.

I'm looking for something, but I'm not sure what.

Would I even recognize it if I saw it?

Everyone wants to be something special,

do something special. Make a mark.

I'm not making a mark. 

Not making a difference, not even a little bit, no matter how I try.

I can't even keep myself happy.

So back in my head I go, 

where I'm understood and accepted.

Not for what I can do, but for who I am, deep down.