Some people never find love at all, count yourself blessed if it ever happens your way
Memory is a tenuous thing, like a rainbow's end or a camera with a failing lens.
One foot in front of the other, counting tiles on the floor so I don't have to focus the blur of painted smiles, fake faces.
Home ...Home. ...the word, ...has ...no ...meaning
Fake Is that what you are if you choose to improve the basic not perfect you?
I don't need more pain in my life. Why did I invite it in? Do I have to feel pain to believe I feel anything at all?