Sick

The flowering beauty? Oh, I am such a blabbering fool. Saying anything and everything that comes forth in my mind. Here I am so much more composed. This comes from two things. Inspiration (happens alot from him) to define the Lady in which I have so cleverly deemed myself. I'm so sick of being who I am. Waking up every morning to see my (unnatural) black hair and ever-fading blue eyes. You know, they used to be a darker, clearer blue ... I'm not sure what has happened. I'm sick of seeing my fair skin with old regrets and mistakes immortalized there. I'm sick of laughing and the lack of serious conversation. I hate being lonely, but I've been for so long that the feeling has become natural. If only I could speak smoothly and think cleverly ... here is the only place I feel acomplished. Everyone makes me feel shallow and stupid ... though I don't think I am.1

Critisizm, lying, sarcasm, bitterness, denied feelings ... I hate it all. Though, somehow I think those very things describe me. I know this is not pretty, poetic or well-written ... but it's honest. I can't be more sincere or true. I hardly even open up and when someone -- including myself does, it's hardly ever pretty or poetic. Fellow readers and writers, enjoy this one piece of me. It's more than most. I'm to shy to be open with people I know. Directly, of course.2