A mass of a journal constructed of my foolishly ill thoughts and random mind games-- varies in size of posts. Most likely, it will be dumb.
I abhor the feeling of anger. The taste of it, the feeling of it radiating in my feet... I want to cry. My voice is continuously breaking under the weight of spoken thoughts and I can't help but bend to its will of being honest.
I hate hate.
What a stupid thing to admit.
Being kissed is nice. I guess.
I rather it be a bit more harsh and passionate than of one simple chaste peck. I suppose I can't really complain.
It's not like anyone else wants to kiss me other than him.
I like the sound of typing. It drags me on to continue, to bring out more words, more ringing thoughts of tales and ideas that will eventually go untold. I like it. I like how it makes me sound smart, even though I am honest enough to admit I am a damn silly git.
I'm supposed to be in Biology working on the veins of a lilac leaf.
They run like rivers under the microscope.
I hate being poetic in Science class.