Am I a Writer Yet?

I've stayed up passed my bedtime

writing words that don't make sense,

then I wrote again until my words fell flat,

tell me now, am I a writer yet?

I bled words onto paper,

and made rhymes from old news print,

then I lost my train of thought til 4am.

Tell me, anyone, am I a writer yet?

I wrote poems on the ferry,

for the boy who played guitar,

About a girl with too wide eyes,

and her lips all red like cherries.

Someone tell me, am I a writer yet?

I read the words sewn to my chest,

and marked all my feelings in henna,

collected my thoughts like a novel,

and hummed every word to a beat.

It'd be a shame to say I wasn't a writer yet.

I read novels and sonnets,

from Shakespeare and Poe,

hoping that something would show me the road.

Tell me, please, am I a writer yet?

There is cursive on my forearm,

a few pretty little words.

A few tearful eyes at the sight of my words,

and a smile to accompany them too.

Perhaps I can answer for myself now,

and my words might shine a little brighter.

It was silly for me to ever doubt;

I always knew I'd be a writer.

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