I'm an open book that doesn't know how to read it's self. Almost as though it is in another language, one that everyone but me can understand. I'm laid bare before the world, all of my secrets known by others before I even know to keep them. I'm stuck in an endless and desperate search for labels that will only limit me, trying them on before throwing them away. As Elio said "identity is a draw with a false bottom" except mine has a lock to which I don't yet have the key. As they say, only time will tell, but if they knew me at all they would know that patience is not a virtue of mine.
YOU ARE READING
Short Poems
PoesiaI wouldn't really call them poems, they are just an expression of how I feel. They don't have a structure or lines, it's just whatever comes to me
