I Am Not A Writer

I am not a writer
I am an imposter
With all the symptoms of a syndrome that plagues my heart
My art isn’t creative; it’s imitative
It’s selfishness; it’s vanity
It’s conceited self-expression
Don’t believe me?
Just hold this piece up to a mirror
And look for a reflection of anything else but me
Write me if you find me

I don’t have writer’s block
I’m locked in a writer’s box
I can’t look outside myself
So I’ll hide behind the window pain
And watch and write and while my life away
I wish I could describe the way
The lonely dewdrop slides down
The hesitantly slippery slope of the small slim leaf
Or how your love heals my pain
Or how the dawn begets the day

Please take my pen
I’ll still have my memories
They’ll never leave me
If even you do
I’m tired of weaving a basket of words
That’ll never hold any water
That’ll never have any substance
That’ll never touch even one star
Don’t be my muse; it’s just no use
To fill the moon with lines of blue

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7 responses to “I Am Not A Writer

  1. 🙂 This poem dey form, mi feeli

    “I don’t have writer’s block
    I’m locked in a writer’s box”

    “I’m tired of weaving a basket of words
    That’ll never hold any water
    That’ll never have any substance.”

  2. Wow…how thought inspiring…
    The emptiness of words written and the value of those left unsaid..haha this piece questions everything? Why do we even bother…
    But still funny how unwillingness to be called a writer is expressed in a beautiful poem. Nice

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