Can I call myself a writer?
Now that I’m published at 16,
Is it me against the millions now?
Just fighting to be seen,

Will I waltz across the water?
While they all sink and drown,
Or will I stumble upon obscurity?
And drift softly down,

May I proclaim that I’m a poet?
Now that I’ve rhymed my soul away,
My eyes were sold as damaged property,
Cause all they saw was gray,

Will I be poisoned by my passion?
Like a snake charmer of prose,
Trying to tame such wild beauty,
It’s worth the risk I suppose,

Can I say that I’m an artist?
Now that I mixed my paint with tears,
It just seems so unproductive,
To paint alive all your fears,

Still as long as there’s creativity,
I can make art when I cry,
I want to live life like a movie,
And have the credits roll when I die.