I once was told my words were meaningless, that every word I wrote down was nothing but a false idea that I was a writer.
To there great surprise I believed them, leaving my words to gather dust within my notebooks and personal journals.
Each time I opened its seal to write again did the ink of past thoughts become smeared, leaving nothing but a blurred parchment.
I chose to believe those who tore at my words, for who wants to hear words of a man with no name, no fame or importance.
The world is filled with people struggling to be seen, yet all I want is to be heard. Not for the sake of hearing my own voice but rather for the sake of those who can no longer hear their own.