I'm not a writer. I don't have time to always have my nose in a book. I don't spend my nights contemplating ways to save the world. I'm not alcoholic, I'm underage. I'm not depressed, I have too much to look forward to. I'm not a writer. I'm not opressed, I'm young and free. I'm not abused, I live happily with my family. I'm not super-intelligent, and I don't have a gratuitous lexicon. I'm not a writer. But maybe I could be. I feel the beat, in words, in sentences, in speeches, in the air. I know everything has a meaning. One just has to unlock it. There is a certain part of me that lives only in pencil to paper or fingers to keys. I'm happy when I write. No one can touch me in my special place, my little niche, my hidey-hole. All it takes is a poem. But when I think of writers, all I see is how they are in movies: Think poor Virginia Woolf, walking out into the middle of a lake in The Hours. Think Truman Capote, sitting on a couch, adding liquor to a jar of baby food in Capote. Sometimes I question the world I'm breaking into. I don't really see in myself the qualities of a "writer." And I worry, despite the irony. Perhaps I'll break the mold.