Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad
Then come the gloomy hours, when the fire will neither burn on our hearths nor in our hearts...
It doesn't matter how I begin my poems because by the end they are all about you
Trust is like a paper once it's crumpled it can't be perfect again you can flatten the paper and try and make it as straight as you want but it will never be perfect again
© 2016 TheThingsWeSay. All rights reserved.