The sky cries, too . . .

. . . and sometimes, like tonight, even the vegetation agrees with me: it is too much.

I wonder if my tears are like the stunts I pulled in adolescence. Am I simply pouting so that I can get my way? Well, it never was entirely about that, was it? It was about being mixed up and not knowing how to sort through everything. 

I think never having grown up--in this case--is not a good thing.