I **** at everything I have ever tried to do. I have no hobby other than sitting in the woods having solemn conversations with myself every day of the ******* week, aloud to the trees, talking about **** I would never actually say to people. Hypothetical discussions that I know I would never even have the chance to have with people because no one gives a **** to converse with me. Soft soliloquy's have overflowed the forest I spend my lonely time in. I have come to a realization that there is not a single person who has any interest in understanding the depths of my mind. I have friends and I know they care about me, but I am truly a lonely person who longs for both amatory and genuine love. I carry out empty and meaningless conversations with basically everyone who takes the time to approach me, but maybe it's because the one's I lust after never take a god ****** moment to look  back at me. I have wished and attempted to rid the lamenting life in which I sustain. I admire nature's natural hue that vibrates within my soul. I wish I had someone to appreciate my immense thoughts. No one gives a **** about who I am beyond the words I utter to the crowd. I just ******* ****, dude. I don't have close relationships with people because I am the only one who cares about what is caressing someone's inner-self. I cant help but whisper to death and desperately request my end. Then I realize what a dumb little girl I am. I covet **** that will never be more than a mere want. My life has succumbed to pure melancholy and lewd lust.