I was 21 when I realized my poetry wasn't very good. I kept writing because my longing to create something beautiful wouldn't let me quit my attempt. Pretentious to imagine that I could, bad verses continued to flow as the monster that is my own mind allowed itself to think so. I tried to play God with words only to be disappointed in my mortality. And when I awoke from my illusion, I watched the world get confused and it was alright this time. We write not to create a masterpiece, but because our souls are masterpieces themselves.