I was given a simple piece of advice, “If you want to be a writer, then write.” I’ve been told it’s therapeutic, even To put my feelings in black and white Give some tangible evidence Of everything I’d rather hide, Spill out everything I feel, unjustified Onto hundreds of loose leaf lines. “If you want to be a writer, then write.” So I bleed out this stream of consciousness Endlessly, until all the pages are gone But as the lines on the paper come to an end All my thoughts continue on. And if I go on writing this fiercely The world won’t stop spinning As I keep anxiously scribbling. When do I get on with living? “If you want to be a writer, then write.” With me, there is no black or white Emotions have always given me trouble See, I’ve been every different grey on the spectrum But never one or the other. So if some day I’ve got nothing left, Then leave me with my paper and pen And I will dry up when the ink does. I’ll never be able to grasp it, Why I feel so ******* inadequate. This is the only time I feel passionate. “If you want to be a writer, then write.” You’ve never really lived, you know, Until you’ve loved a writer Crawled into her busy mind And walked around inside her Explored the dark spots in her brain, Entered her bloodstream And swam through her veins Then out through her fingertips, To become immortalized in ink. When you love a writer, you never really die. “If you want to be a writer, then write.”