Your world is a scrunched up ball of paper, small enough to fit on the inside of your palms and you're afraid to let it drop and open. You're a natural protector, protecting your self. And no matter how hard I try, each word, verse and poem I create, already exists in the depths of your mind too afraid to fall at the edge of your tounge that is crumbling just like your heart. I am not immune to the disease of excuses to avoid attachment. I've been a victim for centuries. And if I could tell you all that you meant to me and what I felt for you, I would be insane. I would be shot to the head by a gun called stupidity. But I still do it anyway.I am a catastrophe in never-ending await for you to look at me differently...
