my life under water.

everything is prettier under water.
and that is a proven fact, my short legs are longer, and all my ideas damp underwater are some how more profound.
I write, I do, but its the fact that I live so strangely that is suppose to make everything more interesting but it doesnt, because I, and in contrary to popular belief, actually do not have the key to my own heart, and even if I did I hardly think all the out poor of emotion would flow so smoothly.
I am 17, and I do not blow my own horn, because this is hardly a complement, because it`s hardly a blessing, that I have grown far faster than I was intended to do.
at 17, a girl should, well, discover who she wants to be, slowly embark into maturity, and still really want to fit in.
I did that at 13 going on 14.
and as much leverdg that is suppose to give me, it also gives me deep despair, it robs me of childhood, and well, free thinking dreams, and naive endless possibility, because despite it all, I still want to expiriance writing befor I stop due to failure.
and you`d think that being 25 within would somehow give me, more, stability, sternity, and, well certainty?
it dosent in the slightest bits, because I ,scattered ,flow underwater.
because everything is prettier underwater.