Past fury running through me, I have always been ENOUGH. Strong and witty and at times to rigid and tough. There is tenderness inside of me but the right man has to waken it up.
I am a poet, with a ghost waiting for me when I get home. The agonizing feeling of not being able to find love.
There is a skeleton in my closet, waiting for me to call the cops up. Was it me who killed me the one who was so bright and young!
Wicked tongue, quick as bullets flying from a gun. Wicked tongues must be silent to hear the universe call.