I am a walking oxymoron -
Never too sure of myself,
Too unreliable to be loved
Sometimes thoroughly confused
By the paradox of my mind,
The asymmetrical and contradictory lines of my body.
I vomit out thoughts that I rebut
Half a second later.
My life is split in half between
Things I say
And things I do.
They're complementary colours
Battling each other,
Scowling at each other,
While I watch, and do nothing.
I'm a self-aware hypocrite –
People never take my words as truth
For they are always half-fledged things
That I throw at walls in experimentation.
If my mind was a painting,
It would be Free Form, with the orange,
The black, the white.
I'd like to think I'm this way because I'm too complex
To only be a clause, a phrase, a simple sentence.
And I love my thoughts too much to be a tautology.
But this is the part of me that nobody loves
And I'm not sure if I love it myself.
I am a walking oxymoron.
Don't trust me.
