Chances are it is what it is.
You dithering mess of confusion and bliss.
Why do we scream and by we I mean me, but I can’t articulate I yearn to be free, at the top of our lungs for ego to see?
I’m rude, I insult, they say I tell the truth but I can’t digest if nice was ever much use?
when I (Made excuses) lost a friend. I changed my ideas. I became more a drifter more hide behind fears.
I guess it’s my kind of early warning. I’d rather push you away than hear your story.
I’ve read so many books I’ve got papercuts on each finger, the blood doesn’t clot.
I can’t handle another. I’m strong enough to admit.
I’ll push you away before a defeat.
© G.P Williamson 2017