Erm..Rambling about nada

I love how a pencil feels in the crook of my hand; making marks on paper and watching letters glide across a page. I like the grainy results of dull pencils and how mechanical lead breaks so easily under the pressure of my heavy penmanship. I need pencil and paper like I need the blade, like I crave a drink. I am compelled to write, though it does me no good. I aam a writer who never wanted to write, a poet at loss for words. Yet nevertheless, here I am. Again. Writing.

I had a teacher once who claimed the best pieces came from the soul. But what does one do when the only heart you've got left is thumping rudely in your chest, and your soul is smashed down in the heel of your shoes? No one bothered to cover that unit of high school lit. Or maybe they did, and I just skipped out of class that day.

I don't...Write because I like to, understand-- I write because I must. I am compelled to, a moth to flame; and every blank sheet of paper cries out to be filled. Words I never realized existed end up penned down in my handwriting, and stories pour out of my fingers like blood off a cross. I never wanted to write...I just did. I just-- Am.