. . Love Laced In Cyanide . .

Is it my impulsiveness that makes me who I am? Or is it my clever and witty ways that define me, the character inside begging to be released. Almost like a Dr.Jekyll and Mr. Hyde type of incident. Sometimes I ask my self,"Why do I have to act so childish." Maybe it is just a repression coming out now. But, why now? Why at this stage of life? It's all so confusing, I wish someone would help me sort my life out. If only problems could be sorted in boxes and stored somewhere I won't remember. Why can't life be so simple? On the other hand I guess life would be pretty boring if we didn't have those conflicts. It almost gives you that feeling of purpose, something I lack. I'm like a porcelain puppet on string, easy to be controlled, and easy to break in to pieces. But to the day when I am broken will I be able to pick up all the pieces, even when love has said no about a thousand times?