There is only ever one beginning, multiple middles, and eternal ends. You start somewhere, continue elsewhere, but never finish as there is no limit.

Writing is infinite, it's immortal. I reach a manic state and there's the inevitable fate. My addiction, my obsession.

Should I ever feel broken, poetry fixes me and stitches up my open wounds right away. It's the best cure for melancholia and the best medicine for an asshole ailment or the jackass jurisdiction.

If I ever feel the need to describe what true happiness is on a good day, my pen and paper are staring me right in the face. I believe I was born with a pair of poetic pants on, and ocasionally a sentimental shirt to represent the days that were to swing by for a visit in my near future. 

I guess I've even got 'Ambiguity' written all over my arm. That's a double whammy. Writing is my weapon and I am a warrior. I believe that literature has literally taken control over my life. I am dependant on constructive criticism, blessed ballads, limitless literacy, personalized poetry, and witty writing. With a lack of words and wisdom, I'd be no more.

I treasure and cherish every opportunity I have to write, not knowing when my last ink blot will be. I've become used to expressing myself through writing so much so that I've become less and less attentive to real life conversations. I feel as though my oral expression isn't as talented or that my verbal speech isn't grade A sometimes, especially with those I don't typically associate myself with.

It is a part of me, who I am as a person. My logic is in my mind somewhere running around without fail. It seems to me that I cannot erase any sort of memories I have when it comes to rough drafts, good copies, and a final copy. That's comparative to any sort of relationship. Good, bad, or just neutral.

So, that being said, do I fear writing? No. Is it powerful? Yes. I can express myself in any which way and not feel guilty or ashamed as it is not directed to anyone in particular but the emotions are there and cannot be hidden, and the words cannot be unseen.

For me, the words on paper are a spark in my heart but the final written piece is a flame in my entire chest distributing fiery, fierce elements throughout my brain to create a philosophical fire from the tip of my pen. If I were to die, just know that my ink hasn't mislead me and that writing will prosper through a creative mind's soul.