It used to be that the words were there, all the time. Burning under my skin and trying, trying, trying to get out. It was a constant need to write. To find a way to say the words that I never could say out loud.
	And so I wrote.
	All the time. I always had a notebook or piece of paper with me, just in case it got too full inside my head and I needed to spill the words out. And they came out in
Sharp
Pointed
Knives
That cut at me and left me bleeding, but free, so free. I could say anything that needed to be said. I could write emotions and I could describe the color red. And all the while, the words tore at me, telling me to write more, more, more. I was charged with holding them and finding a way to allow them to express themselves.
So I needed to know things. I felt this hole open up in my mind, ready to swallow any and all knowledge. How could I give voice to the words if I did not know who they were, or who they could be?
I wrote, and I became good at it. Brilliant. I was in middle school. I thought I was at the top of the world. I could shatter the Earth with my lovely, lovely words. 
But then it started to slow down.
I started to waste my time reading things that were not true writing. I started watching television when I never had before. I started shopping. I started to go out to movies and events and fill my life with things that did not help the words. I no longer tried to fill the gaping hole in my head, and it slowly scarred over with random facts about characters that I had not created and that did not come off the page and live in my head.
I stopped reading. 
I could tell you so many things about other worlds, but they were not worlds that I had created. They were on the television. They were in novels that had never once been proofread. I could not live in these worlds, because they were the worlds that belonged in the dumpster. They were crumbling; stumbling half-worlds and I filled myself with them.
Now I want the words back.