This red, beating, heart-shaped thing

You with the great music taste,
you who plays it well,
you with the mind which thinks,
you who writes so well,
you who sees the beauty of art.

you who understands me so,
you who can be honest around me,
you who shares all your thoughts with me,
you who enlightens me with your deep thoughts,
you who might make me feel so loved,
and I might love as well.

I'll never find you.
and I'll never be good enough for you.

This red, beating, heart-shaped thing.
I'm far too young to know what it really is,
and too old for immature definitions of it.

Its easy to fall in love, but hard to tell which is the right one.
Strangely, one never thinks of all these when they're in love.
Its even stranger that I'm writing these when I'm not in love,
not much, at least.

hormones screw your mind up, make you suffocate others,
maybe you just want to think its fine being alone cause you are,
because it probably is a splendid thing afterall.

If I never do find it,

I want to roam the world,
work part-time at the weirdest places,
do the weirdest things I love,
do art and music (and try to get better at it),
talk to strangers everyday and learn new things,
live with a roommate somewhere & live on the streets,

adopt a new born. They remind me of hope and fragility.
If I'll never have one of my own.
I'm imagining myself in london, how great that would be.

I was thinking about how walking around alone feels quite good. Explored some parts of the esplanade today. I dislike crowds.

Life sounds kind of fun, just not right now.