Once Upon A Time

Once upon a time, fairy tales were real
but I knew that life was far from perfect.
Too little to understand the problems,
too old to be blind, to not notice that
Things were falling apart at the seams.

I turned eight, nine, and I didn't believe.
Nothing was real but the nightmarish days.
Every night I'd pray for things to change,
Or at least for a dreaming reprieve,
but none seemed to come within my grasp.

And I move on, move on, switching lives.
Transcending worlds, changing my person.
And I’d lie awake and wonder, always,
Who am I, really, and why, why, why,
Why do I pretend to be someone I’m not?

Later on in life, old at only fourteen:
It’s taken a while, but maybe I’m whole again
and maybe, maybe, I can be myself now,
and things will still be all right in my world.
Maybe, eventually, I’ll be okay.