seventeen.

i feel that today will be one of expectations too high and burns too deep to really know what i am underneath. of hopes, and thoughts, when all they really mean is that everything will happen and i will be pushed wherever he wants me. because really, i am just blowing whichever way the wind takes me, as i pretend to walk with purpose and find little things to make an overall effect. i am nothing more than an accent misplaced, with a memory filled already with dust. because i am sick, and hunger for nothing but security in someone or something that i love, when in actuality i am left sitting in a sweaty chair watching my past go by with the newspaper. silent observer? hardly. but i think that i deserve less than that chair sometimes. or maybe that is me comprehending experience. so speak. because deep down i'm scared as hell, and i'm only seventeen.

and all this is is words
words
words