I write my thought down in a book and call it my treasure
I bury it and sketch a map, thinking I'm so clever
But many explorers have journeyed with no luck
They travel, and travel, but eventually get stuck
Is it my fault? Can no one survive the obstacles of my design?
Is this what I want? Are they sure my treasure is what they want to find?
A locked chest revealing my lies is not a treasure but a sin,
There's a grave I dug that I must now lie in
My secrets, my darkness, my life is a nightingale
No larks can be found in this eternal hell
But still. I sit and hope
Waiting for a hero, not thinking to be my own
With each failed adventure, more obstacles arise
Adding to my personal disguise
Hiding behind the mirage of trees
I wait for someone to stop looking for the treasure
And look for me.

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A deep poem mirroring some of the insecurities I hold within