Some days you make me want to carve myself open and expose my soul to you. I want you to know me and know and love every intricate colourful detail that is woven into my existence.
Other days you say things and I want to throw the scalpel so far and stitch the holes I have made. Stitch every vulnerability, every secret, every detail and all you will every see is black and white. Because if I don't give you my colours, then they will remain bright and whole. They will not fade or sputter or bleed because I deem them worthy and pure.
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Endlessly Falling
PoetryI have a slight problem. It is banal. Inconsiderable. Inconsequential. Insipid, vain, and trivial. Some might even some vapid or nugatory. So frivolous. But, to me it is kind of a biggie. Here's the deal. I have a problem with falling in love... re...
