Paragraph.

    I sit here searching for words, and normally I'd be ranting in sentences that don't make sense- but this time it's going to mean something.  Yet the words have all left me in a quest for their own meaning.  Why is it that when my fingers rest on the keyboard they never move?  I want to tell you, no, to show you, why it's new and not something from my childhood.  Because it's for you, and only you.  Maybe you'll see that, the way you always see me.  It's an amazing exchange, really, the writer and the reader.  But instead of something poetic, all my words have flown away like the doves that perch at my window, and I sit here scrambling to be an artist like you, but in reality I can write nothing.  It doesn't even come close, as hard as I try.  And oh, how I wish I could at least write a paragraph for you-