I'm honestly just a young writer. I have learned that writing is not only a way to tell stories, but to vent about the problems with life. Even though nobody will listen, I know that I can still write, whether I am good at it or not. Below is something I wrote in regards to picking up my pencil and writing, however at the end I stop writing and everything gets sad again. 

The Pencil in My Hand:
	It pressured the lined paper on my mirror like desk as it glided across. It left the familiar grayish mark that it always had. My ecstasy had just initiated. The sensation echoed as it descended my brain and made the scene below. The euphoria intoxicated my soul with divine exhilaration. I zealously sustained the imaginary exaltation. Each word conveyed yet an additional secret regarding the spirit of my allegiance in relation to my utensil. It would inscribe onto my paper the sensational plethora of my tremor. The drive to persevere rejuvenated my inner ghost. I blissfully endeavored on my journey. It didn't matter what people rationalized in correspondence to me. My heavenly cosmos authorized my expedition. Now, could I endure the following procedure? I sensed my weightless arm lift. The upward roller coaster had abruptly came to a stop. I discarded my pencil, as my hair catapulted into the breeze. Down I would go into the depths of anguish.  

(Pardon my grammar and my spelling.)