I stand a moment and gaze at my cloud of thoughts
What comes to mind is limitless;it is all sorts
The third hand seems dishonest.
For to love is a risk that one must be modest

Concealed in my heart I hide the truth of my being
I am not proud; but I am not satisfied to be fleeing
A cynical cycle, which  appears with a paradox ending
One should knot their laces now than later for pending

How can I ever be such a mockery that I hesitate, but rather be called a fool
I hate to feel abnormal with friends ,when I act like a tool
I cannot release this barrier that will restrict my trust
The matter has developed as an infant where bullying was a must