As I stare ahead of me, I hear the scolding and reprimanding voice of my past. I don't flinch at the memory like I used to, just allowing it to happen.
I'm never what I like I'm double sided And I just can't hide I kind of like it When I make you cry 'Cause I'm twisted up, twisted up Inside
Before either of us can say anything, she pulls me into a kiss. I close my eyes and take her face in my hands, forgetting whatever it was I had intended to do before.
I'm never what I like I'm double sided And I just can't hide I kind of like it When I make you cry 'Cause I'm twisted up, twisted up Inside
What is a poet? An unhappy person who hides deep anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that when the sigh and cry pass through them, it sounds like lovely music. — Søren Kierkegaard, Philosopher & Theologian
