A/N: This is the story I need to read, so it's the first one I'll write. I will upload it chapter by chapter. I'll do my absolute best but first drafts are often messy so bear with me. Any constructive criticism is welcomed and appreciated.
She used to crave the feel of new paper, the fresh start that came with a blank page. The way the white lines would beckon for a pen to be placed on to them; to encase them in the workings of art, the poginacy of poetry. She used to envision her newest carefully, crafted creation, the way the words would ignite passion or pain in the reader. How the ink would expel her demons like a priest performing an exorcism. Each stroke of the pen a wound transforming into a scar. There had been something about starting a new poem, the tantalizing thrill of expectation coupled with the worry of imperfection that had always clenched her heart tight as a fist. A bizarre adrenaline rush; half excitement, half fear. It had driven her to madness on a few occasions and saved her during others. But not that night. That night when she picked up a pen, there had been nothing poetic about neither the words or experience.
She had poured the last shreds of her heart into the ink that littered the numerous pages she'd written, a final goodbye to those she loved. She hadn't been able to write anything since.