Poetry I think?

Annonymous

When are you a writer?

I write.

I drag my hand across the page.

My eyes follow as ink flows from my pen.

Words string into sentences, forming poems and stories.

I write.

Every chance I get.

My mind builds characters, living and breathing in my imagination.

Worlds come to life along with them.

I write.

But I am not a writer.

Once the ink dries, the facade comes down.

It is as if I am playing a part.

Although I wonder- when you stop being a person who writes and start being a writer?

When does it become such an integral part of your identity?

When does it consume you?

When are you a writer?

No matter how much my hand cramps from my pen, I fear I will never be a writer.

Home

My house is walls and a roof.

My house is layered brick and grass along the yard.

My house is my bed and kitchen, bathroom and closet.

My home is picking something just because it is purple.

My home is drinking chai in a warm much while smelling like cinnamon.

My home is riding on a bike through familiar streets.

My home is writing, watching ink tranfer from pen to paper.

My home is baking from scratch and making new recipes.

My home is finishing a good book, turning the final page.

My home is long naps where you feel like you've slept for hours.

My house is not my home.

My house is for my bed, kitchen, bathroom, and closet.

It's for fights and tears.

Noise and emotions.

My house will never be my home.