I’ve been told that my stories and poems are good, but everybody just looks at the story on the outside, not the inside. When I get the urge to write, my heart rate increases, my surroundings become brighter, almost clearer, and my hand feels twitchy, making it hard to see or concentrate on anything else. When writing I lose myself and everything around me, the paper and pen is what I become, nothing more, and nothing less. But after I finish writing people just look over it, say it’s good, and then move on with their lives. After I show someone what I had written my twitchiness goes away and my heart slows down, all the while everything becomes dull and boring once again. But although my slows down after getting the urge to write out of my system, I still feel a little prick somewhere inside of me that keeps urging me to write, but most of the time I just ignore it like it was a thorn in my side, even though at times I would become agitated just because it was there, digging deeper inside of me.

The words that were silently floating throughout my mind suddenly crash through like a tidal wave, making my head throb and my patience melts away. I try to lock the words away, but they just fight harder every time I try to, so I just endure the throbbing pain with each passing hour. This may sound strange, but the urge to write takes over my body every few hours and every few days, consuming who I am and how I act.