*

It seems too easy to paint with words

I expected there to be trouble

I’ve had the misconception that

Time is what makes a writer

Slave is what is a writer

But I feel often I know more than them

More than any volume they write of my craft

Because you can’t instruct someone to be a writer

Writing is there, whether you like it or not

Like it, I do

Though like can’t possibly describe

Because sometimes I feel it’s my savior

And sometimes I feel it’s my curse

So if I can write so easily

Does that make me less than you?

If I can be so in touch with my emotions

Does that mean my words are as worthy as yours?

I sigh and write in hopes they are

Chaining myself when I’m already chained