I'm Not A Writer


They say life is like a book of handwritten passages of mistakes and experiences, but I don't consider myself a writer. It was never my intention to publish myself, having a fear of judgment from strangers that think they know me just from reading my summarybut that is just not a chance of misconception I'm willing to take. They haven't lived my struggles. Seemost judged me by my cover while others that left me open couldn't even get past chapter one. I came to them with illusions of wholenesshoping they would read the inscription etched on my back, helping give the theme of new found love to my story. Hoping they notice the titles and chapters that had the same ending of painful mistakes others wrote within my story. Hoping they could help me erase the pain and make me feel like I had something to gainbut they decided to fold the corner of the last page they read and promised to return to keep readingbut they never did. Some just skim me as if not every part of me was ever important. Writing makes my hand hurt. Continuous pain shooting through my fingertips, reminding me not to loosen my grip on reality and actuality. That fictional stories of fairy tales and fables are only to help me sleep at night. Even though I can't seem to sleepmy book through everything has seemed to keep the spine in tacked. So why am I constantly bending my back for an act of love and affection to the point I can't even sit up straight. One day I want to be with someone I can let read my story saying to him you have to see this. Someone that understands my plot and adds a climax to my life, making me pull out my box of conflicts, secrets, and missing pages and share them with him. Someone that finishes my sentences, and notices the smallest tear or misspelled word and keeps reading like it doesn't exist. One that fills empty pages with memories that make me smile like I never knew how to frown. Many have attempted to read my story and never finish it. I have a story. But forgive me. I was never really a writer...

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