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.