page: THE TORN & CRUSHED PAGE

I look at yours, I look at mine.
Again, I look at mine and realise, that mine's not good enough.

Yours is better.

I can tell you're the smart/intelligent type, I know your type well. I can smell it from afar.
Maybe it's not the smell, but the drips of sour jealousy, drained inside of me.
My outside smiled, my insides grimaced.

It is not the smell, I just detact the corrosion of my ego when I taste some one like you.
My shiny-esteem rusts away as you shelved, cataloged and decorated my scattered, messy thoughts.

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I don't think anyone should be reading my blog. I don't know whether it's me or it's a normal thing to do. I don't write so flamboyantly in my diary, but the fact that I know someone I don't know my stumble upon this; I consciously write better.

At the same time, I want to put things in codes, so that those whom I know who chance upon this would not know that I'm talking about them. (Yes, now I'm talking about you)

I have no idea why I'm so optimistic in real life, but as a blogger I'm such a pessimist. And it seems like I'm complaining about everything.

I just can't blog about happy things. Though when I'm viewing them, I find them entertaining. But to have those ideas of funny blogposts to arise naturally, no. I don't have those.

I have these. EMO SHITS.