Sometimes the life you're born with isn't the one you deserve.

People see this, they see the differences,

They watch the notebook scrawls and assume you're too old for your age.

They observe the notions and compare them to mockery and truth,

Watching every little step and reciprocate your emotions.

They are in awe because of your age,

They feel that you are far too nurturing than they will ever be.

But even sometimes you forget your own name,

People don't believe it when you tell them,

Yet in the shadow of it all an obvious light remains untouched and trusted.

It remains near a pool of ink where hairs spill mountains and trees and squirrel tails burn in the distance.

Your real name is still glowing in the past.