'Who are you?' You ask
I turn fast,
This question is asked by children a lot
'Who am I?' You nod,
'My little angel, I am a writer!'
'What is, a writer?'
'A writer, my dove, is someone who spins stories into beautiful webs!'
'Webs?' Your whimper, I sigh, a fear of spiders,
'Yes, my love, webs, but these are fun webs! We tell stories!
We spin them from sweet, sweet memories.
Memories of loss
Memories of bliss,
Memories of pain
And memories of gain.'
'Do you cry when you write?'
'Since I write sadness? Yes, I cry
But not like others
My tears are on my papers,
My tears are in the words I say
Of course, I'm not okay.'
'Is it hard?'
'Hard? My sunshine, dear no! It's called writer's block!'
'What's that?'
'When I don't feel the need to continue writing, it happens fast.'
'Since you cry unusually, do you bleed unusually?'
I laughed, 'Naturally!
'Like my tears, my blood is filled with stories
My blood is filled with memories!
My blood is filled with love!
And things that will never be in above!
My blood is filled with hurt
Yes, my darling, it hurts my heart,
I wish there could be no sadness
I wish there could be no madness,
But as a writer I must show
Sadness, that others may flow,
While I feel darkness myself
My sanity is in shells,
But why do I keep going?
Because I love writing!
Now you know what a writer is'
The child thinks, 'Ma'am, I wanna be a his.'
