Coward.

I find it odd how its so easy

To confide in a pen and paper

It’s too easy

Am I nothing more than a cowardly, trustless being?

There are so many people I have, that I could tell

But I always take the easy way out

Nothing ever changes except the stories

Only my notebook knows my secrets

And though I feel content being what I am

I always question myself

I constantly criticize my ways and my actions

It’s neither positive nor negative

Just a never-ending voice in the back of my head

It is always tearing me down

Which is probably why I am too fearful to conquer my fears

So maybe it’s better that I remain condemned to paper

So that this voice does not take over

So it stays contained
I’ve made it this long
It can’t be content criticizing me for much longer