I am a writer.
I pen words to what cannot be explained by one who is ruled by the workings of his left brain.

I am a writer
I can see poetry in a lonely coffee cup that has long ago lost its steam on a family owned restaurant’s Lysol-wiped countertop.

I am a writer
When my hands have misplaced my pen, I feel like I shall never breathe again.

I am a writer
and I could stand for hours, mulling over loose threads of ideas under the hot water in the shower.

I am a writer
and there are many of me, but only one who is like me exactly (and this is she)

I am a writer
and I could write on and on for this poem has only just begun.

I am a writer.

I am a writer.

I am a writer.