For those afraid of being who they really are.
Now I’m afraid of when to say what, feel like every thought should be weighed on a scale, resistant to share them with the real world, and especially with those I have feelings for. I keep hope in a bottle, stowed away in a case, drink its foreign liquid, and rely on its promise to keep me level-headed, resistant to squander, sabotage, enflame.
I walk along shaky, fragile ground, as I strive to believe someone will get me, I mean, isn’t that what I write all about? The yearning for understanding my depths, a hoped for intrigue, curiosity by the one whose heart is in my own; just as I am a perpetual seeker of who they really are.
I guess time will tell, as I write these words, seek understanding in my own way, and if someone stays, let them stay, as we search souls through eye gazes and touch…
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