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Up Before Eight

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 All I said was "I think I'm meant to be a writer.' 

And the tears just started falling. 

I cried like a mother whose heart is breaking because her son told her he's going to go off and be an artist. 

Crying as all my fears and wishes have disappeared with a single thought. 

I'm terrible at writing so I'm not sure why I want to do it so badly. 

Maybe because it feels easy to let words tumble from my head down my arms and through my fingers and onto the page. 

I like it when ink gets smeared on the back of my hand and stays there for days like a battle scar. 

I want people to know what's inside of me. 

The mountains upon mountains of words. 

The ideas strung together from the bushes and trees and rocks all piled together. 

I can't keep my mouth shut. 

Even If I do the words still find a way out through all those little cracks. 

How could I possibly not? 

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Thanks for your interest in my rambling writing and other endeavors. For more information, feel free to get in touch and I will get right back to you.

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