I am precisely precise in my precision when my internal vision is picking myself apart,
I'm decidedly divisive when I like this part of me that I once hated from the start,
I am assuredly unsure of what I should pour out of myself in writing,
It's like my emotions and my pride are internally fighting.
My memory is bad and my point I can't remember,
I often wonder why God allowed me to be born that day in December,
My temper has a tempo that is on a lower scale,
I failed in my failure because I was so afraid to fail.
I don't know what I'm saying or what I really mean,
I only make sense to myself when I sense myself being me,
I am like things you've forgotten only to cherish them when you remember them,
My thoughts make no sense until I start to dismember them.