• I had passion in writing. It's all but died. I'm just going to let you in particular know that I'm done with writing.

    Oh and that I'm jealous of yours to the point of quitting. I'm not going to lie. Your writing makes mine crumble into millions of pieces before my eyes. It makes mine look like a novice's. Since third grade I've been writing. I've had teachers tell me I should be an established author when I grow up. Oh how wrong they were. Screw my writing.

    Seven years,
    Decaying inspiration and feelings for each of them. I've wanted it since then, but it's been going down hill. I can't please anyone, not even myself. I want others to tell me what they truly think but no one has the guts to tell me how horrible it is. It's always "Good" or "I like it." They're obviously lying. I can't write to save my life. You know that.

    You have ideas still keep coming at you, yet I've been blocked for three years now. My writers block seems permanent. I'm to the point of tears. . .

    You like reading my pain? I feel both appalled and flattered. But I don't have any form of ideas. I don't have anything to go on, no form of characters. They all come forcefully, it's painfully unnatural. Shouldn't a story come flowing out? Is my creativity dying? I used to be able to write as if a river was flowing from my brain through my pencil tip or the letters on a keyboard.

    After elementary my mind went numb.
    I think it's because of the "GO TO FREAKING COLLEGE AND GET GOOD GRADES OR YOU'RE A FAILURE!"

    I'm a failure.
    I'll be working at a fast food joint because my grades suck, my teachers continue to support me but I'm losing ground and I only have a certain amount of time left to finish things. I have hardly anymore inspiration and I feel trapped. Embarrassed of any of my own ideas because I feel no one else will appreciate them. Then I slowly forget them and lose all interests. I feel like I need to hide my ideas, they are too outrageous, odd and creepy. Or too 'cheesey' or too... The same.

    I don't feel like I can do anything. Especially when people tell me it's "Confusing" only after they glance at the first sentence. That's the word that makes me absolutely seethe with anger. The word that causes me to fall to my knees, crush the paper, throw it all into oblivion. Cry at night when I wanted to be happy. I look forward to nights where I'm alone and I can expand all of my ideas into words, then sentences, then paragraphs. But by the time I awake in the morning it's all gone to pot. It's mixed up, an awful idea, "confusing."

    By this point I'm rambling on like I'm the queen of the world, or the center of gravity. But I'm not. I'm just another human clinging to this fast moving rock in a solar system. Sometimes I think I can "change" the world or convey my ideas out loud. Or show my creativity streak through words rather than oddball pictures. Words speak so much more powerfully. They're like my secret code. Each word gives off a vibe. Each word forms a meaning. It's emotionally invigorating, stabling. I sometimes even cry while I write out words because they move me so entirely that I feel like I can keep my grip on the world without slipping into madness.

    But the thing is, I'm a human. I crave attention in this vast world. I crave constructive criticism and reviews. I hate looking on here with widened eyes and an agape mouth just hoping I have some comments telling me a job well done or a nice criticism that I could work with. But I get nothing. The silence is deafening. And I fear that it will always be silent. I feel no one likes my art nor do they appreciate what I write. I even become submissive, thinking I'm a tiny inkling of a voice in a crowd with too many people. No one can hear me.
    No one can hear my creative thunder.

    ...And it just demolishes me.