The Fine Line

I really hate the way I shake My words come out all crooked-like My voice gives out, gives me away, All meaning falls between the cracks I can't say all I want to say When all I am is all I lack I lack the strength to tell you Every secret of my hidden mind My heart I find is closed up tight With the lock of our eyes My best companion! ...Have we met? Good sir, I find I know you not at all You give me but hints at your soul, And every shining piece makes me long to know The long life of you. But curse this trembling silence of me, Which is all you can see, Which is all I can be, When all I can say, Should I open my mouth, Would give my lips away To you. I really hate the way I shake My words fall in a mudslide of an earthquake My wanted words are silent, Yet I can't. Stop. Talking! So I trip up, trip it, slip up, slip it, trip it, trip Up and down, running off at the mouth That wants to run to you... But to run away too. For to get too close is to risk crossing That most treacherous of lines. The lines of this poem are dangerously close as it is To that fine line that I can't find Between too much and too little Too little is safe and is where I wait For you to cross it first, if you will I cannot approach, for too much is the most Stupid thing I could do. I would much rather have Much too little Than nothing Of you.