I didn’t choose to be a writer.
I am the quill
the feather that will never know
so I dip my finger into
the dark inky pot of my mind
Perhaps I’ll end up a writer
out of my own accumulated failures
my addiction to the therapeutic
process of storytelling that constantly
requires me to re-author my own stories
resist the impulse to over edit lest I
lose myself in the complacent conformity
to the tragedies we learned
to call fairy tales.
Perhaps I’ll write stories
so I can live all the version of my life
I am not living
the imagined that never transpired
revisit the loves I never
planned to lose.
I can turn my monologues into dialogs
and record the dialogs that became the single thread
of my conversation with reality,
words validate my write to breathe
a writer is always more represented
by a black page awaiting words
than a resume of achievements.
Maybe this time I’ll be whatever I wanted to be
for I have slipped through the cracks
of common narratives so often
I begin to wonder if I exist anymore,
is there a space for me?
I’ll write myself a new story once more
however pointless it seems, life seems
to be teaching me the art of making
simply for the feeling of creation itself.
I’m writing myself my own story for once
only this time I’ll be sure
to pick up a pen, write it down
and publish it.