I can't even skinny dip into my own thoughts.
If I can't even face my own authenticity with boldness, what makes me think I could ever let someone else?
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Finding Joy
PoetryI never spent time seeking joy. I only spent time making a bed comfortable enough in sadness to bare it. Now, I'll see and work at finding joy. This is a continuation of "We Are the Normal Ones: Memoirs of a Fallen Human".
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I can't even skinny dip into my own thoughts.
If I can't even face my own authenticity with boldness, what makes me think I could ever let someone else?
