think. i'm good.

Filling my pages with the blood from 

the skin that for a moment, 

perhaps a time, a life,

I feel almost as if I 

want to change it


Then I come back to my senses.

Then I remember.

Then I understand. 

I'm good. 

I'm just frustrated.

Frustrated with

more than anything

the reality

the sometimes sad

reality of it all. 

Perhaps the reality

of who I am and 

who they perceive. 

Figuring out which 

is more

important because 

when I push 

one away the other shows its face and

the "importance" of it and the

"significance" of it all...

Hell, I don't know either

to be honest, I don't want to...