InvaderCil

     I went through page after page, but nothing I wrote seemed good enough to be worth the time he would take out of his life to read it.     "How can I call myself a writer," I spit quietly, "if nothing I write is worthy of your eyes?!"     I hadn't experienced luck in any other forms of art when it came to this, either.     "How will I ever be good enough for you?"      My face ended up buried into a bare, tear-stained pillow. I apologized to everything. I suppose I would've even apologized to the air for breathing it if it had crossed my mind.     My inner voice reprimanded me once again for thinking low of myself. I began to ar