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The Autobiography of Teen Ink This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

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Ink stained fingers, frantic teenagers, the incessant turning of pages, and the dauntless writer. Oh, I truly have seen the lot!

Yet, after all these years, a confused whirlwind of mixed emotions rages within me. I still can't put my finger on how I'm feeling. Teenage depression saddens me. Dauntless writers impress me. I'm pretty triumphant after my much-deserved victory over teenage troubles. My very existence brightens up blue faces. Thos frantic fingers which quest through the pages looking for their names in print send ripples of happiness through me.

My pages bear the thoughts of those teenagers who're very different from the normal lot. While others race down the winding paths of life, they meander. They feel the twigs cracking beneath the soles of their sneakers. The babbling brooks giggle at them. These teenagers turn around to mock at themselves. They're best friends with the looking glass, after all. These teenagers mock at themselves, and rage at themselves. They admire one's self, and scold one's self. And, best of all, they believe in one's self.

This difference within them, is in itself a rare talent. They prefer 'the road not to taken' to the road tread upon.

This talent doesn't just enable them to write really well. They can paint the colours of an old woman's heart.

I'm proud of the teens that dwell between their pages. Their writings, are a vital part of them and are an icon of their difference and unique creativity.To them, the exhausted cigarette lies entwined with the dry grass, puffing out heartfelt regret. To them, the little bit of alcohol that trickles out of an overfilled goblet is merely a tear of guilt. They hear the Fizzy-Wizzy-Wizz as the ripples converse with the bubbles. It seems as though the ripples are flirting with the bubbles. Moments later, greasy hands clasp the goblet, ripping the parchment of this to-be love story.

I am proud to be different. For, I hold many talents in my creative embrace. I believe that the mind of every writer is an ink blot. It's definite and inerasable, unless it wants to fade away of its own accord. Yet, the faint blue shadow of a significant greatness still remains.

After all, my writer's don't fade away so easily.






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