Why on earth do I ever try to tell you
something personal, I suppose because
I like insults, explaining something to
you, feeling thankful and bright - you
change the whole scenario to one of
danger and threat
My being indiscrete, violating codes
at work, violating your fine-tuned
sensibilities, why on earth do I ever
reply when you invite my confidence,
asking me to tell you what I think,
when all I get for it
Is an austere admonition to toe the
line - would that I were dead already
and beyond anybody's reach to tell
me what I should think and how I
should act, already been told off in
my early youth for being
What and who I am, certainly I don't
need to be told my being is all wrong,
I already live in fear that I would be
found out to be a human being with
all the failures it entails
Tuesday 26 February 2013
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