Why is it?

                 I can remember when I was little I would sit on the floor playing inside of my head. I had all these stories in there. Sometimes I could finish them, but most of the time they simply faded into my memory. Years later they would reappear, I still write down little bits so might I finish them when God lets me. Poetry has always been similar, Just a week ago I shared a piece in my English class, the room was absolutely silent in shock. Words are so beautiful.