How could I trust you
When all you said was not true?

How could I believe in you
When your actions speak otherwise?

How could I love you
When you don’t treasure what you ever said?

How could I?

That's the most beautiful thing anyone said about my writings.
I love you too for saying it for reading for caring and intuiting it's my truth..
Your poetic profile name Paris is beautiful
Paris is engraved in my soul from another lifetime
a DEJA_VU to me it seems

Although several great poets love my work too you expressed how it helped you be better person.
Surely what you've written
helped me profoundly too.

Sorry if my questions were irelevant insomnia does that to me I rush the second thought
not the spontaneous first.?
I must learn this virtue.

Assume most likely I have been reading all of your work
from my memory bank.
Do not fear me I do not betray
anyone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Paris Hlad: commented on,
"Deity Mine Thee."
"I think this is favorably reminiscent of E.B. Browing - "Whoso loves,
believes the impossible."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Answer-
Elizabeth Browning makes a great poetess.
I am here with my old Scarlet Letter A memorized old scripts learning how to read and write myself.
To me anything placed in God's hands apeaces
"Whoso loves believes
the impossible."
         I am after the opportunity to speak up writing about my inner truth my life.
For what I regret most is
what I didn't say back them to change my life.
but disclosing ones truthful innermost feelings is apeacing.

I learned from you that one has only one quick small chance if ever given one, to communicate effectively to let a dear one know they matter dearly.

What's impossible with men is possible with G**. is apeacing
~~~~~~
Paris Hlad commented on:
"Ratoncito blanco,"
        To Karijinbba:
Thank you for your kind words.
I have read a bunch of yours, and I believe I am a better person for having read them.

You have more than wisdom on your side - You have truth and a deep understanding of the existential paradigm, which is to say that you think about much bigger themes than most people do -
A true artist."
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear...Paris Hlad  
Thank you I am no artist
just sharing a long overdue truth
So welcome read me thank you.
I am truth an open book. Eternally greatful.
~~~~~~~~~

“Whatever is true,” she said,
“I want better for you.”

What’s true is that I am alone in my fight
The darkness that swallows the light
For whatever is true, dear Mother
Is your baby was hurt by another

What’s true is that I stand alone
Cowering before the Wicked One’s throne
For whatever is true, Father dear
Is your little girl was stolen from here

What’s true is that I’m losing my mind
Every step pushes me further behind
For whatever is true, dear Friend
Is that I am drawing near to my end

My heart breaks in seventeen different directions.
The white realm between my eyes glares back at me
Initially, I think he’s trying to hurt me
Forcing me to stay
But then hope effervesces in 1 new direction
Up, out.
Stay and feel he says
You need to heal he says
He's just a mar stapled upon a pure surface
He's just blank and broken
Clean and vast and warm and open
And can’t I be this wall
And can’t I just be free
From all this pain that's hindering me
“Stay” he says
“You'll never be the same” he says
And so he holds me
Compelling me to stay in the most rugged of places
Shifting when its time for me to move forward
He wasn't trying to hurt me
He just wanted to help me
Relieve the scar I painted for myself
When I cast my burdens upon the shelf
And never bothered to look
Never bothered to feel
And chose to reject what was so devastatingly real
I’m enamored by this blank space
I’m mesmerized by my own old pain
I want to leave but I finally listen and stay
The white wall becomes me
We hold each other’s gaze
And we stay and feel and then move away
To a new pose where the false okayness
Is really okay.

I am not an open book;
I am not an easy read.

you pried open my cover,
and engraved your name on the sleeve.

ink bleeding through the layers,  
pure white pages made unclean.

you wrote down a story,
and I let myself believe.

I spend sometime with myself
Nothing serious but so important
To talk with me sometimes
And resolve the difficulties

Most of the times we are best friends
But other times like nemesis
Just to not agree on something
Doesn't mean I don’t love myself

When we agree on something
I love myself even more
Useful to have different opinions
Learn new idea I didn’t know

I hate when myself lie to me
Just to make me feel good
The Lie is forgotten but the regreet remains
Any truth is better than make believe