Not a Writer

| October 9, 2017 | 0 Comments

I sit staring at a blank computer screen.

The words that used to swarm my head with specificity have gone into hibernation.

Is it the aftermath of a crash that’s left me bruised and paralyzed?

The side effects of comfort and clarity that are packaged with a mended heart?

Or have I always been this afraid.

 

I fear them — 

My own words and what the world will make of them.

That somehow they won’t be beautiful enough,

Because I was taught to think in numbers and not beauty.

Since I never got by with the allure of my eyes,

But rather the way they saw the world.

 

When I was seven, I wrote the quadratic equation on every page of every notebook,

And finished math tests faster than essays.

“She doesn’t write in a timely manner”, they said.

“She’s not a writer.”

 

Not a writer — 

An accidental mark, tattooed on my frontal lobe.

It haunts every word my logical eyes allow on the page,

Fearing that I won’t be able to solve the sentence the way I can solve the quadratic equation.

With ease and certainty,

And faster than the 1.x% of the world.

 

I am the 1.x%,

But I am not a writer.

 

featured photo credit: Larryb Writer – zExposure Photography Styling with legginsl via photopin (license)

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Category: featured, Poetry, Prose and Comedy

Danielle Diamond

About the Author ()

Maker of films, writer of stories, lover of music.

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