Part One

I pull down my worn thesaurus, turn the notebook to an empty, curious page click and unclick my pen 5 or 6 times as if to click some inspiration into my searching, wandering brain some days I grow frustrated with my inability to coherently express some days I grow content with the effortless ebb and flow of words at times, the paper is my ally and friend at others, it is my enemy, taunting me with dangling strings of eloquence and just when my hopeful fingertips brush the ends, they are quickly snatched back I revel in the freedom, the liberty, yet I am also imprisoned within the lines, trapped into the ink, and woven into the paper a prisoner with absolutely no desire to escape I believe the ending of a piece of writing to be the most important part; the last thing the reader sees it must be powerful, thought-provoking, insightful one must never ever leave it unfinished, and incomplete it would not be right to just…. trail off