I haven’t yet found the honesty to admit what it is I truly want. I’m not undecided, I’m just afraid of the certainty. I know that my desires will remain unattainable until I finally confess
And it just stops there. I can’t seem to go any further. I feel nauseas on the edge, on the verge, and I can’t stand another minute containing my truth, but I don’t say a word. I write around it hoping desperately my fingers go against my mind to just type it out. Just type it out, please. But they don’t. I ramble on, stupidly optimistic, but as the paragraphs accumulate, I have only drifted farther away from my intentions. I have created a deep sadness that diseases my cause. Sick with so much to say.
And it just stops there. I can’t seem to go any further. I feel nauseas on the edge, on the verge, and I can’t stand another minute containing my truth, but I don’t say a word. I write around it hoping desperately my fingers go against my mind to just type it out. Just type it out, please. But they don’t. I ramble on, stupidly optimistic, but as the paragraphs accumulate, I have only drifted farther away from my intentions. I have created a deep sadness that diseases my cause. Sick with so much to say.
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