Hot or cold.

Up or down.

Either too fast or not fast enough.

When could I ever be just enough:

To be exactly on middle ground,

Instead of torn in-between?

When I start writing by hand, it's too big, then gets too small once I reach the end.

I wait to expand –

To dive deep –

Afraid of not giving everything – or everyone – else a chance,

Then find myself not expanding as much as I intended to…

And that kills me deep down,

But it hurts a bit less every time,

Numbing me more and more to the inner pain,

Yet I'm still standing –

Though not sticking.

To just one thing.

There's a whole lot of "all" that I want to give,

Possibly far more than anyone deserves,

But I still find myself holding back –

For the right reasons or not –

Giving them all nothing.