I Am A Writer

I am a father

And a writer

I am a husband

And a writer

I am a barstool philosopher

And a writer

I have the fingers of a guitarist

And the fingers of a writer

I have eyes to take in a changing world

I have a mind to interpret that world

To make some sense of it and describe it

In terms that can more easily fit the minds of others

I am a writer

I wake

I fill empty pages before I've heard a single word

Before I have any reason to believe a single thing at all

I am a writer

I breathe and face the blank page

In the time it takes the pen to land

Someone is talking, sending icicles to my chest

Doubt, impostor, naive,

Overwhelmed by the sea of white and its 

Countless empty blue horizon lines

I am a writer

I flip backward through 150 pages

All once blank

All now filled

Four journals worth

I am a writer

Whoever was talking has stopped

Ice has melted

A pen, loaded with a million words

Begins to roll, to consume nothingness

To probe the mansion of the mind

From basement to attic

and every floor, every room in between

Around every corner, the foreign and familiar

The comforting, the hard to accept

The mansion is not haunted

But still contains many ghosts

I am a writer

I rush into each room

Flicking on light switches

Sweeping aside drapes

Opening doors and windows

I am not afraid of what I find

The mansion is my own

I should know what is inside

Even the basement

Even the attic

The bedroom

The closets

I am a writer

Fresh wind billows down hallways

And up spiral staircases

Sunlight pierces shadows 

In dark corners

Long ignored

Trauma of the past

Unfulfilled desires

Packed into non-descript boxes

Placed out of sight

Until they've taken the pattern

Of the old wallpaper

Disappeared

Until this sunlight

Reappeared 

There are so many

They are everywhere

I am a writer

Again I breathe

Flip backward 152 pages

Lines and lines of boxes

Once packed away

Now sorted, examined

Placed into frames

Hung upon once empty walls

Four journals worth

I move from room to room

unpacking everything I have tried to hide from others

From myself

I am a Writer

I am not afraid of these rooms, attics, basements, closets

It is my mansion and I have the right to live here

I alone am responsible for its upkeep

Every word I write

An unearthed, reclaimed memory

Every line

A box emptied out

Every page

Another room cleared

Every journal

Another story of the mansion

Tidied up a bit

I am a writer

As of this moment

153 pages

Three more rooms since I sat down

To a sea of white 

And its countless empty blue horizon lines

I near the end of the fourth floor

I will wrap it up and climb the stairs

I will be honest, I do not now 

How many stories, rooms, basements, attics

Or closets this mansion contains

But as long as they keep making journals

I intend to find out

I am a writer

Reviews

[Unspoken poet]

NOW this is just plain awesome, I really enjoyed this write. Everyone is someone. Awesome job.