I am not simple,

although I wish to be.

And not have a world of worries

that are tangled up inside my chest.

 

I am not simple,

Although I may appear be.

 

I smile

I laugh

I live my life.

 

Perhaps,

not entirely to the fullest.

 

I am not simple.

I never have been

and probably never will be.

 

My heart and my thoughts

are a mess.

As tangled as the string

 I use to crochet my many projects.

And though the patterns may be,

my intentions are not always

as clear.

 

I am not simple.

I sit stone-faced to one thing

and cry my eyes dry to another.

 

One moments I will feel

completely everything,

and the next

abolutely nothing.

 

I am not simple.

I have survived things

yet am unable to speak of them

Because the memorie

bind my tongue.

 

They choke me out,

and the string of though

ties me down to the bed,

unable to move.

 

I am not simple.

Maybe that has always been clear.

 

I cry

I yell

I scream

Sometimes for my own

selfish reasons.

 

I have fallen in

and out of love.

Each time losing a piece

of my heart, but also

finding a part of my soul.

 

I am not simple.

That much is true.

But one thing

I know for sure

 

Is that

 

I am simply

 

Me.