The pen touches paper.

Too much consumed. I have to let it out. Pull it out. Spill it out, onto paper. Words and letters jumbled together. Streams of verse pouring from my pen. I live in my head? No, I live on paper. Streaming, flowing, growing. Everyday, all day, typing it out in my head. This life is my novel and I'm writing it well. A best seller etched on everyone's faces. My eyes tell the story my mouth never will. Listen closely and they'll tell you the tale. ~9Time via 2008

I wish this was still true. I feel lost in world devoid of creativity. It seems like years since I spent the day by myself writing out verse for no one to hear. I think it's time to quit reality for a while...