Truth

I used to have a subject, he was pretty.
He was the definition of beauty, with all the flaws I can clearly see.
I wrote galaxies and wonderlands, for the sake of speaking my mind
I wrote and wrote and only wrote for and about him
Every time I thought of writing, I thought of him
A living proof of love, heart eyes and passion.

After years of holding on to this subject,
I decided to face my fears
All the unsent letters I wrote for him and all the words I enjoyed writing
came to an end by a single confession
After all, dreams don't come through
They just disappear into thin air like the memories of things you thought you'd have forever

I miss having a subject sometimes
but now I live in peace
I guess now I understand the things I wrote myself
that Love was never about things that your mind speaks
but what the heart truly feels.