Hot or cold.
Up or down.
Either too fast or not fast enough.
When could I ever be just enough:
To be exactly on middle ground,
Instead of torn in-between?
When I start writing by hand, it's too big, then gets too small once I reach the end.
I wait to expand –
To dive deep –
Afraid of not giving everything – or everyone – else a chance,
Then find myself not expanding as much as I intended to…
And that kills me deep down,
But it hurts a bit less every time,
Numbing me more and more to the inner pain,
Yet I'm still standing –
Though not sticking.
To just one thing.
There's a whole lot of "all" that I want to give,
Possibly far more than anyone deserves,
But I still find myself holding back –
For the right reasons or not –
Giving them all nothing.