Not Writing, Flowing
Drew, Age 15, Virginia Beach, VA

Smearing my feelings across these blue lines, I'm fingerpainting the pictorial version of my life, struggling to drag this pen across this slice of flattened tree.

I'm trying so hard to reach my goal, of being an author. But the ink won't come out. It's fighting to stay in, tired of drying up on pages in a book whose pages tell the story of the struggles of my life; school, grades, music, and girls.

It's all in here, screaming to be free. The side of my hand is raw, from the thousands of times it has slid across countless pages that hold my soul in words that pour from my mind and into my hand. Slamming the pen as hard as I can, it is a cheap but effective metronome. At least it keeps a beat. As I write these entries, I scream out the words, hoping to be heard. I write to let my emotions out, I can't help but shout. Intensity is overwhelming, emotions are all consuming, tears are overflowing. I am constantly revising, scratching out words, replacing with better ones. Ripping out songs, the ones that should not be sung. I can not stop until I am done, I will not stop until I am done. I will keep on writing until I reach the end that it needs to have, even that means writing forever.


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