I know I've been dwindling between telling you to be selfish and want me to always care for you and said recently to hear me say I love you but now forget that I do .. But that's just as indecisive in words, consonants and vowels that a want to be author will experience in times of mental blocks and loss of inspiration that is dwelled in a kaleidoscopic prism of shades and unknowns.
Even as of now, I don't even know what I'm saying at all. I just know I do assume and make strict and quick choices with a vengeance to be right.
If I want or don't want, I oftentimes wonder why I've seen so much glory on how many heart filled and/or heart construed lovers can fight or break what could or couldn't have happened. Or rather, is there even a win or loss in caring? Facts and opinions, opinions and facts. Or even better yet, is there even any sense in the time designated to these sometimes minuscule or grand times people oftentimes feel and dwell upon?
I have said far many times how much I want change, but that's all I have done so no surprise that there has nothing but naught and frail faulted fucking full forethoughtfully flawed fights flown frightfully foregoing fired frightening
flights from foreseen forevermore.
What the hell kind of repeated bull shit.
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