My Mind Burns and My Fingers Itch

I have this in satiable desire to write right now. But no time. Alas! Were it that when my eyes twitch to see the alien in the familiar and like periscopes search above the seemingly ordinary day for the vastly unexplored that my hands, too, could have medium to record this inspiration!! I'm like a pimple that desperately needs popping; I'm white with the pressure of my ideas which are trying to implore, beg, demand of, bribe, and deceive me into putting them down and organize the ink into the plethora of thoughts and, so much more, stories that are fighting for release. "Soon," I say to the horde of buzzing words in my head, "Soon I shall release you to set havoc on the world." But they do not listen; they've heard enough of my empty promises. They thirst for the open air and are wont to attain it by any means. This post is my white flag. As my own imagination takes me as a P.O.W., I have but one condition: Let me not fail high school! And a social life would be nice.