It becomes exhausting to come up with some ******* statement to intrigue thee. I'm not the everyday "raconteur" of great stories or jolly experiences. To be honest with each and every individual I meet about the struggles I face would take the courage I don't have. So I avoid the situation all together.

What does it mean to **** at adulting?

The question I despise the most upon meeting relatives or friends of family is...

"So what are your future plans?" i.e. (What are your accomplishments that will delight me? What are your goals? How much money are you making out of this?) I agree in which it's quite a bold matter to address, but the question ***** the life RIGHT out of childhood.

That's when I know I **** at adulting.

I repulse the means to grow up and get my **** together. Some would characterize it as extreme laziness, carelessness or even stupidity. But most times I feel as though if you don't understand the challenges I face, you wouldn't understand my dilemma.

Leave me be,

Let me sleep,

For I have a very short fuse.

People are quite similar, different but similar. What can happen once, can happen twice. What can happen twice can happen over and over. There's no anomaly in this sense. What I feel is happening all over the world. Perhaps, I've gotten good at spotting fake smiles because when one wears one, one learns to spot one. Check the eyes. The smile is on the mouth yet absent from the eyes. I seek for what is missing. So I study others to find my missing puzzle piece. A trial and error, for I find myself chasing the joy others are having. But after awhile, I realize that I'm just different. I react differently to stimulus provided by life. I realize that I'm stronger than how I once believed, those days I lay alone too exhausted that death sounds appealing. But to lay down with tears, I realize it's not over yet. So I look foolish and get up after thinking I couldn't take anymore. I keep walking. My desires are misleading and failure is common, but I walk anyway. And maybe it's a desire I have.. the possibility that things will get better.

People are social, they love to talk. Doesn't matter with who, even with those they dislike. Could it be to feed a need? The chocolate of social activity? I don't specialize in keeping small talk, nor a fan of it. I often hear people talk about the importance of eating and drinking well, the way of a healthy lifestyle. But shouldn't there be a class about talking well? There are naturals, but for me it's not the same. The mimickers, those who emulate the behaviour and those who do it on instinct. I, upset the balance because of my ways.

People see me and expect me to be something great. I upset their expectation and cause disappointment. I'm familiar with the term. What seems to be a long term game.

People are like fruits, I was told. *Feed them well with what they need and they'll grow ripe and well.

I sit on the rooftop looking down. I look at my feet that dangle before me, traffic lights, cars and other motorists buzzing by, a mom pushing a stroller, kids frolicking in the grass because a new season has begun. I ponder about life itself. How can something be so excruciatingly invested in its own beauty but yet so atrocious at the same time? The daily news covers so much corruption throughout mankind but yet the view on the rooftop displays what is at peace with the world.

I feel as though we are governed by society, a caricature of how things should be and in this way some of us have grown to be cruel. One violently attacks another because of their religious beliefs, ****** orientation, physical appearance and race for reasons that i can't wrap my brain around. In this life, being different has become the elephant in the room, a label where society rears its ugly head.

It's upsetting how quickly some are to point fingers and publicly ridicule another without trying to put themselves in the victim's shoes. And maybe that's why I strive to be honest and embrace my difference. I feel for those who believe they are neglected by society and need to change who they are in order to fit in.          
       On the rooftop, i look for signs of humanity.

I find love to be a painful concept. Each time i love, i risk opening a wound dug out by the animal in me. And in love's sick game i've grown tired of the fight, tired of the constant tug of war between the past, the present and the ****** heartache. After awhile, it all just seems easier to give up on, then to move forward. And i guess this is the feeling of losing yourself.

Love is a bleeding mess, red paint splattered on a ****** canvas. My heart decays like petals off a rose, wanting to be whole again. To be enslaved, I seek an act of closure because it's an ongoing issue. I get emotionally attached to someone then begin to push them away for unexplainable reasons.