Other Parts of Me

I’ve been living for so long now,
just fleeing from myself,
that I’m afraid I’ve forgotten how
to escape from this hell.

My reflection is a shadow
of what others want to see,
a facade lacking love,
not a reality.

I’m not chasing rainbows.
Not seeking a pot of gold.
I’m not searching for answers
or a way to escape the cold.

I’m not looking for miracles,
not pursuing some grand dream,
not seeking out fairy tales —
just yearning for the other parts of me,
longing for something to be me.

I’ve been living for so long now,
lost in self-pity’s grip.
I’m afraid I’ve lost myself
in someone else’s script.

The mirror lies when I see my face.
I know it can’t be me.
A time-worn victim without a place
in this reality.

I’m not a master of words.
Not a poet in my soul.
I can’t reveal the perfect mix.
I can’t lose control.

I’m not a living miracle.
Not some dream come true.
Just a weary fairy tale,
searching for the other parts of me,
yearning to be me.

And I cry out to the stars,
scream out to the night.
I pray with every ounce within
for something to make it right.

And I plead and I dream
of some alternate fate,
where someone walks into this life
and sees the other parts of me.

I’m not chasing rainbows.
Not seeking a pot of gold.
I’m not searching for answers
or a way to escape the cold.

I’m not a living miracle.
Not some dream come true.
Just a weary fairy tale,
searching for the other parts of me,
longing to be me.