I would like to tell you that I had an amazing disaster, or that there was an awful issue and that writing became my outlet. But, you see, if I told you that great tale, I would simply be telling you someone else's story. I don't have the right todo such a thing, so here is my bittersweet tale. I supposeyou could say writing has always been a hiobby of mine. I can fondly remember telling all sorts of stories to my two younger brothers. Stories filled with magic, and darkness, and nights that tended to save the day. It wasn't until eigth grade that I realized I could actually make a career of this. The thing was, my adventures were amusing, but I adored poetry. To be honest, poetry started as a rebellion. My Dad told me it was silly. You can bet your next of kin that the next dau I dragged my Mom to the library so I could find out more about this amazing art. I fell in love. To this day, I doubt any person on this Earth could fufil me in such a way as that first poem did. I wish I could tell you that it was the finest writing from one of the Greats, but I simply cannot. The first poem I ever read was one that slipped out of the book when I opened it. Written on an old, worn out sheet of yellow paper was the perfect poem. It looked as if their pencil danced upon the crisp paperas they poured out their soul. I still keep it in my old diary. For what? Inspiration, affection, who knows. Sadly the poem was annonymous, so the author can never be credited. I just pray that they may know how much it has impacted my life. As a result, I began writing. In the middle of class, in the dead of night, even in the earliest hours of dawn. I am utterly addicted, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
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