Living in my mind

When I was younger, I went by a rule. I wouldn't speak to you, unless you spoke to me first. What hurt, was when they said, "Wow, you're actually cool." Was their original opinion of me something much worst? The reason for socializing with this strategy, is that I figured they didn't want to talk to me, I wanted to be proved wrong. Although, their words of encouragement lifted me, it only seemed to be on shaky grounds, due to the comparison of the image with which I had been crowned. I just wanted to belong. I felt misunderstood, the thoughts I possessed just didn't seem to relate to anyone I knew, so alone, with a journal, the thoughts were free to bloom. I'd make up tunes for my words, and hum them to myself from time to time. To me, they were clarity, to an onlooker? Probably just poems and rhymes. It was my way to vent, I loved the combinations of so many words, and especially what they meant. For every time that I could wither away emptily, instead it filled me with hope for a better possibilty.