Never A Writer

Ask yourself one question: Am I a writer? I know what my answer would be. No. I am not a writer. I am an artist. I am a painter of words. I am a sculptor of sentences. I am me.

This is how I am now. Never was I this deep before you. Never was I an artist, but plainly a writer. Never could I state my feelings on a piece of paper as freely. Not before you.

You, my dearest reader, are who I am talking about. You have inspired me. Just knowing someone cares enough to read this. Just knowing that someone recognizes my strength. My expression. And of course, everything around me inspires my greatest work. A friend. A GFF(H). A word. An action. Anything you give me, I will use. If you build it, I will come and paint a beautiful picture of it to everyone through this. My writing. My safety. My expression.

I never used to write so often. I never had so much to say. High School really does bring out the real you. It did to me and I have only been there a few months. Friends. Teachers. GFF(H)’s. Boyfriends-ha! That’s a good one. I wish I had a boyfriend.

We walked from his house to mine, our hands clamped together like we were each others last hope. We arrived a few minutes before my curfew. He pulls me closer to him before I reach into my guitar-shaped purse for a dangling set of house keys. “I love you,” he whispers into my ear, hugging me close. “I love you too,” I said inhaling his musky scent.

A mere painting. Nothing more. No live models. A picture. A world so perfect that it could only exist on my mind and on this page. Perfect. I wish.

Nothing is perfect. Even a painting has its flaws. I am definitely not flawless. When I am writing, though, I feel perfect. It is beautiful. Yes! Beautiful! Art is beautiful. Pictures are beautiful. You are beautiful. You are a painter. Never a writer!