I Am.

I Am
I am entwined and concentrated
I wonder if the words will whisper the same reading to my reader, each word elastic and unique
I hear the grate of my pencil just down to a nub, the click of the keys, the letters fading from constant contact, and the rustle of the paper, becoming frail with each modification I make.
I see the words seeping into each other, gradually creating life.
I want to be remembered for years, a phenomenon, and a household name.
I am the conductor, the constructor, I am the writer.

I pretend I am the character, doing what they do, feeling what they feel, even though they are already a mirror of my imagination.
I feel the paper consume the ideas that come from my mind’s eye and the impact of the ideas wanting so badly to become prisoners of the paper.
I touch the bite marks in my pencil, victim of writer’s block that has overcome me many a time.
I worry that it will overcome me again in the middle of my story, a pool of darkness, a black plague.
I cry out in desperation, astonishing ideas, and pain in my fingers from spending hours dancing on a keyboard.
I am the conductor the constructor, I am the writer.

I understand that I am not the paramount writer in the world, but I have to hold on to my false idea to keep pursuing my story.
I say one thing, but it mean another in my reader’s mind, so I spend hours contemplating how I can make it make sense in their square, boxed in world.
I dream of being the center of conversation in schools, book clubs, and homes.
I try to be remarkable, but I am still a teenager, I don’t everything, I can’t do everything but I am young enough to dream.
I hope to be your author.
I am the conductor, the constructor, I am the writer.





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