Is It So Unusual

that i feel there's a story inside of my heart that's not even read?
and who should i tell it to without boring my audience?
sometimes i feel my only peace i can acheive comes from writing, which is not always true but usually. but even in my writing i may attempt to write my inner story, with all the most positive intentions, but even still i come up short and feel like the reader has only received a slight piece of the novel.
it's not quite writer's block, but i'm definately not spouting out all the right words either. so frustrating.

i can step outside and just stare into nature's eyes, escaping into her pupils and wandering through the fields and trees and creatures of her face. but apply pen to paper, or fingers to keys and my words only seem second rate to all that i want to describe.

or when i think of the way trent makes me feel. words are words, nothing close to actions, and every piece of poetry and song only, to me, barely whispers across the real and true ways i feel for him. as a supposed writer, this angers me, and many times i tell myself that perhaps i should aspire after a new dream, scrap the writing idea.

but then i write. and i know how my mind jumps at the chance to express my random spontaneous thoughts into words, and i realize this is what i need to do to keep alive.

but what of my story? will it always be untold, or have i not found the right pathway, the right moment to tell the right person? i have a feeling it's a good story....then again i may never know.