When I was six
I wanted to be a writer
I had a lot to say
And a million ways to say it
I bound books in my basement
Out of copy paper and staples
'Written and Illustrated by'
Above my name - initials on every page
I was proud of who I was
I knew who I wanted to be
And I would shout it from the rooftops
"I am a writer"
I could say it with such a conviction
And I truly thought
That's the way it would stay
But then - with the way of dreams
Time muddled me up
And "I'm a writer" became
"I don't know"
I still had a million things to say|
Hundreds of stories in my head
Thousands of ways to say them
But none of them came out right
I wrote of love I had never felt
And pain I had never lived through
And sadness I had never experienced
My writing was empty
I didn't bind books in the basement anymore
I did homework in my bed
And scrolled on my phone
Clever captions stolen from Pinterest
They marked some of the best writing
I'd done in years
But suddenly
When my life felt empty
My writing felt full
And the answer to the question
"What are you going to be?"
Is still a big fat
"I don't know"
But like when I was six
I want to be a writer
With an arsenal of new feelings
And a million ways to say them
YOU ARE READING
Yellow Paint : A Collection of Midnight Thoughts
PoetryAn ever-growing manifesto of the musings that keep me up at night Vincent Van Gogh used to eat yellow paint because he thought making his insides bright would make him happy. Writing is my yellow paint.
