You told me once, that I was poetry or a poem, or something like that. You said all these beautiful things to me before you gazed at my soul. Tell me, does the composition of my face sing to you inverse? Is it the shades of my hair? Is it the hue of my eyes? Or perhaps it is the blush of my cheek. Does the tint of my lips resonate with your ears? Does the tone of my voice calm the troubles of your day? Does the intensity of my eyes penetrate your heart? Does their mystery encircle your spirit with a magical dream? Would you still say I am a poem?
Could my essence be defined best as a writer? Do I create? I was once told that there are no new stories. All of them have been written. All a writer can hope to do is weave the thread into a new tapestry. I am no maker. The stories I write, the poems I pen are all the stitches sewn into my life. They are all the pains and joys of my heart. I speak now without shame. If my stories are sensitive, it is only because I am no longer hiding from it. If you call me an artist, it is only because I let you see all of me. Is it the way I speak to you that makes you call me a writer? Is it the words that I say openly?
If only you knew my words are the same words from which you hide.