Blank pages sit on the wooden desk where ideas are born.
There is hope engraved between where the old wood splits,
Just like that book, "Esperanza" they made us read in middle school.
One lonesome word appears on the blank page.
Writer.
Who am I to assume this title?
To bear this symbol of sheer honesty.
Honesty with the world,
Honesty with yourself.
Am I enough to be a writer?
Why does the answer to this question terrify me so?
Why do I ask so many questions?
I question my discourse.
But I am afraid to recourse.
"Not with writing, I don't need help."
I only write about what I have felt.
Writing provides the key to unlock my chains.
I can feel its power coursing through my veins.
But if this is not my discourse,
where can I place the blame
for writer's block, immobility.
Academic writing, hostility.
But I chose this, no docility.
Time and time again.
What I say,
What I do,
What I am.
When I write,
My biggest aim,
To create new knowledge
For myself to obtain.
Even this poem,
Is a real big pain.
But I learn, I grow.
And I'll do it all again.
Am I a writer?
I don't know, ask me again
when I have awards to claim or followers for the words I proclaim
Ask me when writing is the only thing on my brain.
Ask me when the writing has driven me insane.
Nov 7th, 2018
YOU ARE READING
Numbing Waves
PoesíaA compilation of short stories and poems about mental disorders, love, sexuality, and whatever my happens in my life worth writing about. These are the deepest regions of my conscious written down.
