You know what?

I'm sick.
of focusing on the negatives,
of complaining,
of not knowing how to deal,
of caring,
of overthinking,
of wondering,
of not being able to just say how I feel.

I'm sick of feeling like this.

I want.
to move on from this,
to not be stressed anymore,
to curb the boredom,
to write and think more positively,
to get away from it all and not care about what I am leaving behind.

I want to be happy.

I just wish.

I wish things were easier like back then when I could write about all the good things in my day, instead of all the bad things, I wish I could be content to just sit in my room and read, for hours on end, without feeling like I wasted the day, just because it wasn't filled with some 'fun' activities, I wish that I didn't care about the way she treated me, and that I could call on her when she was upsetting me, so she knew what she did was wrong, I wish that I didn't like him, that we could just be friends, because I know, really I do, that it is best that way, although, I'm just not sure that my heart has realised it yet, I wish that we could just hang out as friends, without me worrying that I am leading him on, I wish that some certain people could know what is going on in my head without me feeling like I have told them too much, I wish I could trust some of my friends a whole lot more, because although I do trust them, I'm just not sure how much yet, I wish that things were easier but they're not, I wish I didn't care so much but I do, I wish I could understand more but I don't. Why can't life just be easy?

She.

The flower oozed a sickly sweet perfume as its leaves crumpled and then withered.
She developed a liking for post-it-notes on which she wrote little bits of nothing and everything.
She liked to pass time watching glitter fall outside of her window from her open hand, watching it drift and sparkle as it caught rays of light.
She listened to a song about a little lion man and tried to make harmonies to it. It was a rare occasion that she let anyone hear her sing, even her close family.
But secretly she thought she was an ok singer.
She collected the notes and scraps of paper which she scrawled her ideas, words, and lyrics on as sometimes inspiration struck in the middle of the night. She kept all these words, her thoughts, in an envelope tacked to her wall so she would remember.
She read books that she loved, but also frustrated her with their happily ever afters which seemed to rarely occur in real life.
She listened to music which she could sing along to, and mostly didn't like a song until she knew it well enough to follow.
She liked quotes and poems which meant something to her, she liked it when they related to her own feelings.
She wrote poems as well.
About her feelings, experiences, things that she wished would or wouldn't happen.
She liked drawing, but often thought she wasn't good at it, even after admiring some of her own work.
She kept many notebooks with her poems and other poetry, thoughts, feelings and experiences.
Like with her post-it-notes, these things came to her just as she was about to sleep, so she would often drag her subconsciousness from beneath its curtain of darkness to jot things down.