The only thing tougher than crying-
is sleeping.
And the only thing keeping me from sleeping-
is the crying.
Every time I ask myself:
"who am I?"
I run from myself,
and hide.
And even though-
I always know,
where I'm hiding-
I don't tell.
That's...
how much I love myself.
My only conviction-
is my lack of conviction.
I believe in myself-
the same way I believe in fiction.
It's fond-imaginative thoughts-
living with deep meaning, like religion.
I'm pecking for reality,
like the crumbs that of a pigeon.
I see clearly-
so irregularly,
the crumbs of reality,
they don't come cheaply to me.
I'm lost like a criminal-
thinking criminal thoughts.
I'd never make a good bad guy-
I too badly want to be caught.
