And, as if i couldn't be more cliche, i had to end up secretly crying and smoking in my bathroom at 12 am. The smoke clouding my sight forms ghosts in front of my eyes, i can't see clear, just like when I'm with you. And while i inhale then exhale from the killer stick, i cannot help but ask myself if there ever was a time in which i was okay. If there was, i cannot remember it. And i keep trying, but it's never good enough.
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everyday struggles of a fifteen-year-old
Poetrytrash can in which i will be throwing my feelings. This is a safe place and environment for everyone no matter what. You cannot judge me, just like i cannot judge you. My feelings are mine, and the way i react to things is up to my spirit and mysel...
