I want to write, but, like Mrs. Bingham said, I lack creativity. My writing is boring, dull, worse than ordinary. What can be worse thatn ordinary?
So here, I sit on this uncomfortable, metal folding chair, with a pen in my hand. On the top, the title reads My Drea I Want It.
I just stare at the almost blank lines of the paper. Then it hit me, like a car driving way over the speed limit, it came hard, and I almost didn’t know what to do. Almost.
As I lower my head, the ends of my hair just reaching the table, I begin to write. I watch as the pecil dances across the paper, filling the lines with words. I write about anything and everything. From sunsets on the beach, to that disgusting mustard I had on my hot dog yesterday. If it exists, it’s on the paper.

Nothing is impossible.

I remember attempting to write, trying so hard to come up with one decent poem. So now, I write, and out of all the words in the dictionary, not one can describe what I’m feeling right now. Not even hope.