Myself

I could make something of myself,
If I didn’t hold other peoples opinions in such high regard.
I don't have to forsake it,
Just because others don't like it.
It could only matter to me,
And that should be enough.
My need for others assurance and validity,
Has ruined my perception of my own passions.
Now my only reality is others insecurities.
And all that’s left of me,
Is the shattered pieces of the girl I used to be.
And I all I can see, is the broke fragments of the girl I could be.
And I have to follow through, on this self-made prophecy, And suffer my self-imposed exile.
I am so incredibly bored all the time ,
That I resign myself to the fantasies inside my head.
Little snippets of the future I might live,
But the irony is that these fantasies won’t let me concentrate.
My imaginary characters grip me with claws,
And drag me back to the darkest depths of my mind.
And the worst part is,
I crave it like a child near an electric switch.