"'Cause I didn't want you worrying," I take the towel and set it over the wound with my free hand, closing my eyes for a moment, "This happens often. It's nothing new. I didn't want to make a big deal out of it."
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
I swallow, "I'm even more worried that you haven't told me," I whisper, "You can't hide this stuff from me. God, Mark..." I replace his hand with mine, "Atleast you wrapped it up."
All you need is faith, trust, and a little bit of pixie-dust!
I flash a smile and glance back at her, "It's fine. I treated it and everything. But... I won't hide the next one from you. Sorry. I think I owe you that."
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
Poetry is my cheap means of transportation. By the end of the poem the reader should be in a different place from where he started. I would like him to be slightly disoriented at the end, like I drove him outside of town at night and dropped him off in a cornfield. — Billy Collins
