Nothing ever goes right, and the fault is all mine.

Nothing ever sticks, nothing ever clicks.

I often feel like I'm just there, floating through this maze called life.

Nothing ever goes right or left, it just wanders off, never looking back.

It's all on me, it must be, and it is, without a single doubt.

Nothing ever seems like it's meant for me.

And frankly, it can all go to hell, for all I care.

It's true that attempting to write about something you don't know enough about or nothing at all can be challenging. So most of us steer clear of this particular subject at hand.

The unknown has always been scary, like looking into the abyss and never knowing what to expect. What's waiting once you reach the bottom?

It's a normal reaction; it's a human reaction. We're not expected to know everything about every single subject that exists (science, music, art, sports, technology, you name it). That's the beauty of it, isn't it—to be able to learn something new, to feed your thirst for knowledge, or just simple curiosity.

So it's okay not to know or understand everything. At the end of the day, we can only process so much data before we overload or steam starts coming out of our ears.

However, if you truly want to test yourself and your ability to write about a subject you're not knowledgeable about, then you can always do a little research.

Thankfully, there's Google, and Google knows it all, right? It knows you don't know what you don't know.

There are books, as archaic as that might seem when there's this wonderful thing called the Internet, but it can't hurt to check, just in case.

In conclusion, with a little effort, you can write about anything you want. It depends on whether you're interested enough to spend more time on the given subject.

Pat a green clover,

A rainbow will show up.

Do a little jig, and

You just might be in luck!

According to a legend

As old as time itself:

Brew some potato beer—

A blessing you'll get!

The color of the setting sun swirling in your eyes makes me feel like I'm catching a glimpse of a truly marvelous sight.

I'm probably not the only one caught under the spell your eyes cast. I know how your type operates—never committing, always wandering. One day there's her, the next someone else.

Your heart belongs to the thrill of the chase—to the high you can't reach by tying yourself down.

Like a free spirit, you move on, never looking back, living without regrets.

A trail of broken hearts follows you, shards like rose petals.

"You knew how I was from the start. I never hid that part of me, and I never gave you hope for something more," is what you say to every girl in the end.

And like every story goes, they'd cry, beg, and plead for you to stay with them and never leave. They'd beg for you to love them.

"I'm sorry," is all they'd get, the words spoken so softly, so sorrowfully.

Cruel to be kind, or kind to be cruel? I can't pick either one since I'm not sure which one would be less painful.

I wish you'd been easy to hate. I wish I could've been indifferent to you.

But beggars can't be choosers, right?

Because in the end, the joke's on us, who can't resist you and your sunset eyes.

No "good mornings" or "goodnights."

There weren't any of those to begin with.

No more wondering, "Is he thinking of us?"

No more wishing that he'd turn my way and look at me, see through me.

No more daydreams of passionate declarations and affection shared—a crash course in reality is all I've got so far.

Sweet longing turns bitter real fast.

The future is still being held back by the chains of the past.

Indifference is the BFF you need in your life.

Loneliness isn't that hard to bear once you come to terms with it.

No more. I'll end it with just that—no more.

I'm allergic to love.

Any other kind is more than enough.

That doesn't mean I'm the casual type, 'cause I've been fine so far.

Don't bore me with frivolous gifts; I can easily buy them myself.

Don't buy me chocolate; though I enjoy it, my heart won't be swayed by its richness.

Money is the paper we all need in order to survive, but unfortunately, it controls everything around us.

I'm no gold digger, despite being "a woman."

Oh, and please don't send me flowers; they'd just wilt away in vain.

Getting me to love you, future lover of mine, seems impossible so far, right?

Well, it is, 'cause, as I've said before:

I'm allergic to love.

Or, to be more precise, love is allergic to me.

"We're sorry...," "We regret to inform you that..." and on and on it goes.

I guess you grow numb with experience; it's like an occupational hazard.

Professional rejectee—that's what I'll call myself.

I don't need to be a psychic to know how it's all going to play out.

It's annoying at this point in my life.

It'll be surprising if I can still manage to be surprised when rejection comes knocking.

A professional rejectee shouldn't be surprised by rejection.

Turn your back and walk away as

The waves caress the sand.

Your footsteps get lost in the sea foam.

I can't trace them back.

The water washes away

The sins of yesterday, but

It can't erase the bitter

Memories of today.

Our love won't be reborn out of the sea; It'll stay lost among the waves of longing.