Writers are humble beings.
We are not arrogant,
Mighty,
Or triumphant.
We are merely the artisans of words
That will forever exist.
We mold what we already know
Into a black and white painting of what we don't know.
To better understand
Ourselves,
Our world,
And worlds beyond us.
Between keyboard taps,
Pencils that scratch,
And minds that rage on.

We rarely ever write about
Ourselves.
If we do, it is only our perception of ourselves.
We do not brag,
Only tell,
Perspectives,
Views,
Arguments.
We use characters to view the world sometimes.
The morbid words come together nicely.
They say something loud and wonderful,
Yet too often the words are mistaken for
Personal
Feelings.
When that is not the case at all.

We live through our writing
Our imaginations.
That is how we thrive.
Little notebooks are scattered
On bookshelves and desks
Around the house.
Reminders scribbled on lined,
Unlined,
Stationary paper.
Random words,
Quotes,
Brilliant ideas.
Ideas that will be
Unused,
Forgotten,
Misplaced.

But the important part is not
That we are writers.
The important part is
That we have readers
And we owe it  to those
Readers
To put forth the beautifully
blunt,
Excruciating
Truth.