The flower accepted that it would always be a flower in a pot, the flower was just not meant to be in a garden.

She was an empty canvas and he was the artist.

I began to think about who would be in my 'HATE LIST' today. Five years have passed since I was in fifth grade, how have I changed?

As she was beautiful, her life had already been planned.

How something could be so beautiful, yet so terrifying.

But in the end, they'll both end the same.

There's something different, something that isn't quite visible at first glance.

The itch won't go away and it's funny how she is both increasing and decreasing the pain.

It's not happiness yet, though. But it's a start and that is all that matters.