I think I'm in love. ****.

Anger flows through me. It's rapid and unstoppable. Savage waves of strong emotion perform furious tosses and turns inside me. They are maddening, and yet still majestic. I can't take them out. They will take over me and I wont be able to do anything about it. They can't transform into tears; I'm too angry. Ragging flames can't turn into water. Oh my, what shall I do? My fingers twitch nervously trying to find a solution. My hands know it before my brain can process it and I grab a nearby pen.
I grab the aching pencil and a poor notebook that was there at the wrong time. My victims are waiting to be messengers of my dilemmas. Writing tool in hand, I fiercely attack the innocent paper. Rage pours from my soul to my hand and through the pen, to end up in the form of not-so-neatly-written letters. Words start to take form, and later on, sentences. Those sentences are screaming so loud but they are silenced, trapped in the sheet of paper. My words are are charged with everything that once was in inside me, poisoning me and my objective view of life. Words flow from my fingers in fast, impatient movements. I'm anxious, but it will be over soon.
I stop. It's all out. Now that all of that, all my frustration, is all in the ink-marked paper. It looks at me in disgust, as the inky traces try to make their way out of the paper. They liked it better here. They had a more audible voice, they think? Not so true.
Every ounce of negativity has now left me and I'm exhausted but happy.
I relax and fall into the mattress of my comfy bed in the soundless night, and smile to myself.
My angry thoughts (turned into words) are shouting at me from the floor, where I left them, I can't help to laugh at the sight.
I sigh contentedly and drift off to a dreamless, unperturbed sleep.
Detached form my pessimism.
*Happy.

Why do you think that you have to keep pretending that you know what you are doing?
What do you want to accomplish?
Why do you live by expectations that are so high that they seem unreachable?
Why do you keep bothering yourself with silly things like living according to stupid social "rules"?
Please.
Deep down everyone is the same. Don't misunderstand me. I don't mean that we are all silvery robots with monotone voice tones and reboot buttons.
I just want you to know that nobody is what they appear to be. We, modern people, have an image for everyone to see that has absolutely nothing to do with us. So if you thing you are the only person in the world that gets what you are going through (whatever it is) you are wrong. Everyone struggles with their lives. They keep that barrier up for no one to see their true selves so they can't be hurt, judged or laughed at. They (why do I keep writing like I'm not one of them, of you?) hide from the world cause once one sees their true colors they are vulnerable. You open up and you let people cause you pain (and  happiness, lets not forget. But I'm I no mood for optimism right now. Sorry positive people!)
So, would you rather tear your chest open for people to toss your heart around as if it were a football, or are you going to keep it in a tightly locked up box, so you can be miserable by yourself? The truth is, guys, life gives you no options. I decided to give the nice-to-meet-you game a try and well... I ended up writing this so you can just assume that it didn't end up well, and I'm only fifteen. ******* FIFTEEN. So, yeah, it hit me now. The truth. You can't live without pain. What you can actually choose is who causes that pain.
I don't deal with this very well and I'm torn, yeah, but I'll get over it eventually. Life *****, sometimes. But other times it's so wonderful that it lifts your feet of the ground, and you feel like you are flying high above it all in the deep blue sky. (No, I don't do drugs or anything).
Here's what I think: Stuck your tongue out if you feel like it, have fun at times and others be sad (everyone has to be sad every once in a while to rest from all that happiness, ya know?) and be yourself except you are some kind of maniac ninja assassin.