Sometimes, I take out the book of fairy tales from under the bed
Wrinkled and unremarkable, it is now, but it once had so much worth
Telling the story of us, published by a self I don't recognize
Opening it and knowing the pain it'll bring

I miss the innocence of being such a child,
thinking legends were real and dreams could come true
Time has passed, and maturity is a curse
What do we get from being grounded in reality?

So looking back, you see, I once believed
And I can't afford to be so naive
when there's so much that depends on not falling in again
but I know I can't hold myself up like this forever

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.