I plop down in front of my computer; placing my hands on the computer and type for several minutes, the silence broken solely by the tapping of my keys.

How did I begin to write? Not poems, for I do not know that history. Story writing: I think it started when I was…. Four? Three?

Just a silly little letter I wrote to my pencil, trying to explain to him my great frustration over my writer's block, for which I rather unfairly blame him. ;)
----
Dear Friend,

Lifeless white, a waiting page
Speechless, I find myself
Lacking the wisdom to reach the heights
Lacking the love to touch the heart
Lacking the art to touch the soul
While all the right words run away

Formless, thoughts dance through my mind
Desperate prisoners, tightly shut
Lacking the breath to give them life
Lacking the key to break them free
Lacking the form to give them voice

My palms were sweating. I leaned forward, staring at my computer screen and blinking owlishly behind my square-rimmed glasses my brother hates. I was staying up way too late, but I had to finish this. My brain froze and I momentarily panicked.
No! No, no, no, no, NO! Don’t do this to me! Anything but brainfreeze!

No one can be a poet just because they want to be. To write poetry, just like all the other arts, you have to be meant to--that is, God has to want you to. No one can write poetry--real poetry, mind, that's true and good and at least halfway deserving of the word "beautiful"--without God putting it in them; without Him speaking into their souls every single word.

I feel the itch.
An idea grows.
My mind alive,
my writing flows.

My pen is swift,
words chosen with care.
It is a gift
I wish I could share.

My sympathies to those
who’ve never tasted the desire
to set hand to page
and light words on fire.