I'm really sick of being me, i'm sick of trying my hardest and never ever being good enough. I'm tired, mentally dead.

“I spoke about everything,
My heart did,
My voice, the bearer of my symphony,
The continuous hum of purity,
My heart said,
The words that I spoke,
And in my misery, I spoke about everything,
From the darkness in the corners,
Those shadows that pricked at my neck,
The trees that were too tall,
Or too short,
And the rain,
Too heavy or tickling my skin,
Or if it was the sunshine,
Too bright, or never enough,
I spoke of the ones I loved,
Too much, or too little,
I spoke of the ones I loved,
Too many, or too few.
I spoke, to the one I loved,
I spoke,
Too much, too little

“I am totally nocturnal. That comes from waiting for your parents to go to bed, then doing what you want. I’m secretive — I still behave like that.”

“Introverts, man. We’re weird sometimes. Like, “I love you, but I need to go over here by myself right now.”