To be a writer,
In a cliché sense,
Is like holding your own world
In your hands
As you grasp the thick pile
Of your mind you discover
Printed memories
And everlasting freedom.

There is no feeling
Like that of fresh paper
Inked with your problems,
Your possibilities
And your hopeful realities.

Holding the thick
Fresh printing on new,
Smooth paper,
Is like your dreams are being felt –
The thickness of it
Amazes the mind at all the possibilities
Because each page holds pieces of
Your dreams, Your life, your world.

I wish to write a story
The holds every piece of me
And I wish to print it,
For only my hands to hold
Because there is no other feeling
Than holding all the pieces of your life
In one package,
Knowing there is one way to keep everything held together

To be a writer
Is like nothing else in this world
And I wish to become just that.