We stare at the clock, always meaning to do well but hardly ever succeeding.
At least, one of us means well. The other tears and scratches, lulls and
entices, angers and annoys until the other can do nothing else but finally
submit to the energy. Just one more…wait, I didn’t see this…what time is it?
Demons or the Devil
My thoughts are rarely my own
A constant excuse
Being strange to myself and yet being comfortable to others seems to be my
destiny and my desire. Is it just for health, or is something more sinister
lurking behind my wishes? It’s an intricate cobweb of self-doubt and lies
that I’d have to traverse to find the heart, and I think I’ll find other things
Unwelcome in two homes
Embraced by the world