Writer's block

To look at me and assume I'm some sort of modern-day poet wannabe would not be an unrealistic stretch. I'm tall and slender with a (deceptively) frail frame, straight and nearly black hair running halfway down my neck. My fingers are thin, cold, nimble and callused on the tips from interacting with things around me. I have dark, analytical eyes, making an effort to keep track of my environment. I generally carry a notebook around with me to scribble down ideas that come to my mind. I speak in a manner that is unusual for a 16-year-old male, and carry myself warily, but with confidence. I listen to Rain Maida, Tegan Quin, Sam Roberts, and actively advertise my loyalty to Canadian writers. I am the embodiment of that weird guy everybody knows who does things exactly like I do. I'm a walking stereotype.

Not that any of this matters, of course.

I'm not sure why I write at all. Maybe it's to prove something to myself. Maybe it's because it's simply hereditary, and I can't help but do it. Perhaps it's some kind of healthy release for sexual tension, societal pressure and teenage angst. It could be I'm just really shallow and I like all the praise that I get whenever I write something other people like. Honestly, I'm not sure where I'm going with this. I've just been thinking about it a little bit lately.
Food for thought, right?

I listened in, yes I'm guilty of this, you should know this,
I broke down and wrote you back befor you had a chance to,
Forget- forgotten, I am moving past this giving notice
I have to go, yes I know the feeling, know you're leaving.
-Tegan and Sara "The Con"