Perplexed Insecurities.

An empty page that needs filling. A mind that needs emptying. I struggle to produce the right tone, the right mood, but the atmosphere is clogged with insecurities and decisions that seem to break apart. I won't lie and say I'm okay. I won't pretend I don't think of what was said, and it plagues me that I have become so attached to reading in between the lines. I suffer from words that can't make their way across. They bounce about in the most darkest regions of my mind, yet they allow no room, no togetherness, and no safe way of approach.
The sun likes to mock the sad, this I know, this I know through watching the light pass through the window. The clouds reflect the piece of the sky that wants hiding, like the pieces of me I tether away in mounted shame.
Perhaps what I am, who I am, is not so much the goodness I have been trying to convey, but perhaps I am the centerpiece of all that is wrong. Seems likely I am
to falter when the balance is off, seems righteous to collect characteristics to obey by, but when influence is struck with impossibility, the motivation in change dwindles like rain upon glass. We slide through life, thrive for perfection, and decay love that is made for us.
And what you said -- who you said it too-- is the perfect reasoning behind this approach in thought. For you see, though I know you love me, though I know I feel the same way, how may you trust it? How many you trust what I think or feel when the wind carries its ideas into me, and away I am, changing and changing.
One of these days you will not reason.
One of these days you will not be patient.
One of these days will be the day you decide to go. 
And oh how it hurts, and oh how it hurts to feel what can't be said.