But I Am Not a Writer (November 1, 2019)

I wouldn’t call myself a writer

I don’t know everything there is to know

I can’t always see beneath the surface

and I often make mistakes

Sure, I have a couple of things published

and I have enough half-filled notebooks 

scattered around my room to sink a small ship

but I am not a writer.

I have words circling around my head, and

if I’m lucky, I can piece them together

and put them down on paper

but I am not a writer.

I have segments of phrases written on napkins, 

and psych notebooks, and unfinished notes in my phone–

whatever I can reach when I can’t sleep at 3am 

but I am not a writer.

Segments that could probably turn into 

polished work if I ever bothered to sit down and 

revisit whatever was tugging at my heart in that moment

but I am not a writer.

Yet, despite all the reasons I say I’m not, 

I continue to pick up my pen 

and let the ink glide across the page, 

knowing that nine out of ten times my words will 

fall flat

knowing that they will rarely venture outside of the walls of my room

knowing that there are a thousand different ways to say something,

but the words don’t come 

knowing that one day I will die with so many things left

unsaid 

and that

that is why

I am a writer.