Out of boredom,
I open up an old novel I was writing at the age of 13.

I remember thinking I was a brilliant writer,
This book is publishing material.

I read it today and
Cringe
At
Every
Word.

Filled with teenage angst, raging hormones and everything in between.

Why did I think this passed,
For writing?!

Well at least I improved.
But I don't like the fact that,
In few years,
I will cringe at writing I did today.

Hell,
I was reading a poem I wrote last year,
It became trending,
And I think "how?"
Is this even worthy for a like?

Well, I can say I grew.

I don't know what's wrong.
I can't eat. Sleep doesn't come easy either.
Maybe I miss you, and maybe I regret you.
I don't know if I'll ever know which.
Everyone tells me to hold on
Surely the storm won't last forever.
I feel hungover
My thoughts are blurred. Bored.
But one thing rings clear.
I don't want to be here.
I don't want to do this.
I'm back into my old ways of thinking.
I want it all to end.
Not for lack of life, but lack of enjoyment.
I don't pray for the end
But if it came, I might greet it with a smile.