‘Be a writer. Change the world.’
Me? But I’m not a writer.
I’m just a person who writes.
My mind isn’t a prodigy,
my vocabulary is dry.
My pen is vain,
my hands sometime cry.
My letters are hypocrites,
my words are recycled.
My phrases are narcissists,
my punctuations are misplaced.
My writing is selfish.
It helps nobody, just the monster in my mind.
Sometimes it screams,
sometimes it sleeps.
In mind what is rich,
on paper becomes diluted.
“Is anyone reading?! Anyone?!”,
the paper wails in the void.
I tear it down piece by piece
and swallow it down my throat.
And then,
I write some more.