Staring at the blank pages of this paper.
Wondering what to write.
Continually I hear the beckoning of creativity
To create a world upon this pages.
Though the rush and desire is there
The story to tell exists
The characters run wild in my mind
Yet I do not bring them to life
I can hear them screaming for me to let the world see them.
Yet l shut their voices up with distractions
Am I a cruel creator I ask myself?
Or Just another with a gift?
One who would make the grave wealthier than it already is?
One who may never let generations hear this voices.
