I Am Not A Writer

I am not a writer. And yes, this begs the question: Why do I write? I don’t really know. I’ve tried to find the answer to this question for years. My family and peers who know that I love to jot thoughts on my frustrations and fears have inquired before. Maybe it’s because when I speak I tend to play verbal hopscotch and my pronunciation is poor. Or maybe it stems from a childhood where I was expected to be seen and not heard so the words that my voice knew how to express were the ones I got off my chest and onto the page. Maybe I write to let go of the rage I’ve kept bottled inside for so long. While other children were getting coddled and recognized as the pride of their parents, my own made it painfully apparent that I could do nothing but wrong. No matter how hard I tried, in their eyes I was and I would always remain unimportant. So maybe I write because this awakened a dormant desire to be able to speak my truth. Maybe I write to inspire the youth to be proud of their voice and encourage them to make the choice to use it boldly. Maybe I write because of the people that told me I couldn’t make anything of a paper and pen. Maybe I write to contend with my demons. There are probably hundreds of reasons I’ve chosen to transfer my reflections into poems and prose. But I suppose that maybe I write in hopes that my words will reach the heart of someone that needs them. And even if that number is only one, I will write. If my words can resonate with even one soul then my own will find peace. Maybe I write because I believe in the power of open expression. I write my impressions and thoughts and honest confession; I don’t care whether you like them or not. Maybe I write because I feel free and alive when I read through my rhymes and each line reminds me of the good and bad times that have made up my journey of life. Maybe I write for my own peace of mind. But I also write for you. I write to help you understand the things I’ve been through to become who I am, help you peer into my heart and mine pumps ink. Maybe I write because when I think it is often overly so and excessive, and I’m most expressive when I am performing my craft. Or forming a draft that might never get finished. Maybe I write to adapt to a world that is constantly spinning. A world that threatens to leave me behind if I’m not consistently penning my speculations on every intriguing concept, challenging different views, and putting things into context. And maybe one day I will look back and reprocess all these long texts that comprise the majority of the contents of my mind and realize it was nonsense this whole time as if writing wasn’t wired to my cortex nor the fire at the heart of my every fiber. And I would not be surprised. Because I am not a writer, alright? I don’t even know why I write. But despite the lack of a why, I don’t think I could ever stop. These thoughts that run rampant through my brain will not be contained or neglected. Rather gathered, collected, and laid bare for the world to see that there rests in me a force with which to be reckoned. I will not waste a second of my time or a chance to promulgate, proclaim, or publicize my stance on any given issue, topic of discussion, or simple delight. No, I am not a writer. But I will not miss my chance to write.