I Am a Writer

I am hereby asked--- of who I am. Who am I? It’s funny, there was a time when people would ask me that question and I’d answer in my mightiest tone that I was a writer. And there was also a time I’d would answer that what they currently see--- is only half of me. When they would ask where the other half was I would smile and tell them that she’s currently at her locker- getting ready for her chemistry class. There were times when I would video chat with my other half when it was late—and I would turn off the lights in my room and she'd always wonder where the little gleam of light that shined on my nose would come from, I told her my blinds were open, baby my blinds are open and the light from my next door neighbor's house was passing through my window--- every time she would say good and that she likes my nose anyway because it's cute. it was so weird, but anyway when she'd fall asleep and I couldn't sleep I'd listen to her soft breathing and she'd talk in her sleep every now then saying my name and all these funny things she'd be like Phillip duh duh duh and Phillip I duh duh duh and I'd listen and whisper she's my future she's my life she's my everything she's my angel she's this she's that and I'd make myself so happy- so happy. see in my very first poem I wrote that every single ending to a story was the same couldn't appreciate sun until you've been in the rain--- my life is weathered---- and the moral of the story changed with the person telling it cause every villain is a hero in their story and we were only really meant to understand ourselves. And there came a day when my other half decided to disappear--- and things got so bad------it got so bad when I lost her I was so devastated so devoted to finding my other half I wanted her back so bad that I would position the light from my window to gleam off of my nose like old times I’d I’d I’d burn my phone battery leaving my video chat open hoping that she would call and it killed me inside to know that I couldn’t answer---- I couldn’t answer when they’d ask me, who I was. I fell so deep into my poetry and I remember right before a breaking point. I wrote that, in the midst of all the pain, I still couldn’t ever say what I wanted---- “because nothing that I say seems to resignate, organize or relevate, open eyes or recreate. so from the bottom of my heart to the depths of my soul, the story goes better untold." while this quote still stands in my heart, on this particular night---- my blinds are closed---- my poetry is rarely written--- and she's a memory. As of today, I am asked who I am--- and my answer is, I am a writer. I’m just a writer, who has nothing left to write about.