I remember letting my dad read a few pieces of poetry. After all, i DID get the writing interests from him(he was a musician).
Ever since i could remember, i dreamed of having my own little writing spot, drinking coffee or tea. Spending hours of the night writing, throwing away ideas, then starting over again. But now, i have this chance to write. The words gush out of me on paper. To write a book. To put something out there tht ive made. Will it be perfect? not in the slightest. But thats the beauty of being a creative, nothing is ever perfect.
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