This is not my dream.

I’m not a worm in an apple,

the words aren’t apple in a worm.

Problems in my life aren’t scary,

my mind never thinks of being abused.

The direction my life plays out in isn’t traumatic,

and words of loved ones don’t haunt me.

This is not my dream.

The unconscious state is real,

My vague imagination isn’t factual.

A young child isn’t rocking in the corner,

covering their ears, and pretending to smile.

This child doesn’t panic for warmth,

or doesn’t sob for support.

Where the young child sits and rocks themselves,

Is a place where they convince all is not real.

The place where imagination can flutter into a beautiful life,

where the emotions of wanting to separate isn’t an option.

The child knows actions they’ve gone through,

where all they want is a heart full of love.

They strive for the sigh of relief,

from pressure on their shoulders.

Where a mended heart is not another image,

but a yet goal.

Because,

This is not my dream

But only my reality.