This isn't a fucking joke.

As redundant as everything is, my point still remains unheard. And that's the thing. I'm running out of juice; I'm running on empty. What’s the point of expressing myself in such a luminescent manner, if everyone is too busy with their fingers up their assholes to care? Everyone is so quick to make assumptions. Everyone is so strung out, too busy being dicks, too busy sniffing said fingers to just fucking stop and pay attention. If everything is spelled out for you, then you don't learn anything. But who wants to learn anyway? You're all so smug. This identity crisis makes me cry every time. To look death in the eye. To lose faith in God, everyone else, even yourself. What hope is there? To look someone directly in the eye and scream at the top of your lungs how you feel and them still ignore you, or still not fucking get it. The hallucinations make everything worthwhile, but then again, everyone is so quick to judge. You want to know me? Read every entry I've ever typed, and it will reveal more to you about myself than a year of friendship ever could. No one wants to try that hard. No one wants to care or feel. You openly admit you know you're doing wrong, but you still do it. Everything I feel is on the tip of my fingertips. It’s collected in this nature, it's written by hand in the form of letter, after letter, only to be transformed into confetti. Nobody openly admits that they steal original thoughts. And all I ever do is repeat the same shit and try to figure out if I can make it sound prettier than the last time I said it. Speaking in metaphors. Everything is so enlightened, so surreal. Can't we all just trip in a pool and stare at the moon until we can’t feel our bodies? We shouldn't be this young and this unhappy. We still have decades and decades to go, and we've already seen too much. How can we get away? How can we erase the things we don't want to see anymore? The nightmares, the memories, the heartbreak, the young, childish mistakes we make. My heart can only bleed so much. I feel like a hundred years old. Life is fucking hard and as much as everyone knows that, they don't even realize the gravity of it. I've overcome adversity but at what cost? The lights can save you. The big city dreams. The feeling of speed and bliss at the same time. The numbness you get when your heart drops past your toes and into the ground. That cold chill you get when you notice that someone else has visible scars. The closet that once saved you that is now a dust filled rat trap. No one is going to go back to the places you've been and feel the things you've felt. No one is going cry your tears. You really are all alone in this world, and it’s up to you to accept it and overcome it. The tools you need are by your side. Everything is all jumbled up. Everyone tries to tell you what you feel. I know what I feel. What I feel is wrapped up in an old, yellow, frayed book that’s barely kept together by a paperclip. What I feel lies within that letter I left inside the theatre. What I feel is within the heart of the first boy I have ever loved… Its within the rain drops that I spun around in…on the grassy hill I rolled down…on the tree I wrote lyrics on. Its in every crevice of every inch, line, and nook of my bedding. My fears and horrors are placed at the front of my brain and the end of my heart. It’s everything. Take your time. Everything is just a big, big mess. And it’s always going to be that way. Life isn’t a joke, and death sure as fuck isn’t either. It’s a sticky, messy ride. And it’s different for everyone. I don’t have a point. I just have a lot of things to say.

It's funny that how for every ten hateful people, there's one nice person. I mean its ridiculous, but maybe if there were more nice people, you wouldn't be able to appreciate them. My scars are terrible marks. They're awful and not enough time has passed for me to understand how to deal with them and put a hold on my emotions. But I'm trying, okay? Don't call me a "wreck." Because all things considering, I think I'm doing just fine. It's funny that how a kiss can change your whole perspective. You're an idiot. You really, really are. And I don't even pity you at this point. You know what you're doing. You're too stupid to stop and think. You bring everyone in your own pattern of self destruction, then you play the victim. I am done. This is me washing my hands. They're too dirty, and smelly, and gross, and I am washing them. So please go away. And take all of you when you go.