Believe Me.

Words, in superfluous excess, prance around in my head - its dance, ceaseless. Yet, as the physical self postrates in alignment with each letter staring starkly at my face, scarcely does any literary form come to fruition, save for that which is scripted here.

Why?

Pride, an obtrusive deterrent, quells notions of candid natter. Castigation must not rear its ugly head for it hints of weakness on the receiving end. An impregnable fortress forged, permeable to none.

Impressions grovel and yield to fragments wanting.

Because.

I'm trying.
I really am.

Believe me?