ink is a tool

Here I am yet again writing away

Type, type, type... is this what has become of my life?

I want to write something so unique it makes your head spin

I want to write something so good it makes the hair on the back of your neck standstill

In anticipation? Shock perhaps? Maybe even fear?
I don't know...

I just know that I have this wish for my words to hit hard
Harder than your deadbeat dad
Harder than his leather belt

Why are most writers so sad?
Is it because they're so observant?
Catching everything that is wrong with the world in just a glance, and putting it into words as if on command

Making you realize things about yourself that you have always known, but never knew how to express

They're simply magical like that
They know every thought you ever had

All the feelings you have felt, they can describe more accurately than a meteorologist predicts the weather

It's like they know every ancient secret in this world
It's like they're playing a different game than the rest of us when they make our heads twirl with the creativity of their choice of words

I ache to be like them
I ache to create something far greater than myself