Blank.

Trying to sound

Writing death inspire. doesn't it? I'm no Keating. My words don't inspire, nor teach. I cannot capture the attention of a room with merely my words. I cannot conceive thoughts that would render a professor speechless, nor can I write anything worth re-writing for the ages. I merely write to hear my own voice. The words I yearn to say but cannot voice. The things I wish to explain but cannot understand. I will never be Shakespeare, nor Dante, or Po. You'll read this once and forget it before the next dawn. I do however, hope with every glimmer of my being that during the short time this was presented before you, it enraptured you well enough to entertain the mind. I hope that this inspirers you to think, no matter what it may be. I hope it's brought you to think of life, love, comedy, and adventure. All those cliće categories of life. I hope you carry on to look up sophisticated words just to spice up your banter, I hope you take up a paper and pen, and put your thoughts down. No matter how choppy of incomplete those thoughts are. Put them down, for one day when your voice will no longer sound, your words will live on in your writing. For what could ever be more you, than you?