It’s no secret I’m an expert on this idea.
Then why does it hurt so much when other people do it to me?
Why was I born a dreamer, so fearful of my dreams I have to medicate them away?
Why do I believe in magic if I don’t have the energy or the curiosity to read my own tea leaves?
Why is the one thing I want more than anything wrong?
And it is wrong.
Without a doubt in my mind, it’s the worst thing anyone could ever hope for.
Poetry can suck my tea leaves.