My teacher once told me,
Authors write from what they know,
And I realized how it was true.
For once I read the small biographies in the beginning,
Or the small “hope you liked it” paragraphs at the end,
Seeing how true it was.

The thing is,
I want to be a writer someday too.
But I do not want to write from what I know.
All I know is pain,
And how it feels to be called every horrible word in the book.
How it feels to loose friends,
Or how your best friend could betray you.
I know how it feels to suddenly like the color red,
Even though I never liked it as a kid.
And I know what it’s like to disappoint your parents,
Or believe in the sweet lies boys tell you,
And the mean things girls can say and even do to you.

I do not want to write from that,
But that is all I know,
And authors write from what they know.
So I suppose now I will write with scared wrists,
And the now dull color red,
With a small pain in my chest,
Hoping someone knows how I feel,
And I won't be alone.