I'm 52 years old I suffer from depression, but manage OK when properly medicated...I like to think myself an artist, and poet...I can get lost in a painting...I can tie down my emotions with my poems...Am I a writer, I wrote this poem..asking the verry same question.
I love the white of the paper, but it wont stay that way
As long as I have pen in hand, and something I must say
I write down all my feelings, my hopes, and my dreams
Trying to make sense in a world thats not always what it seems
I love the smell of the ink as it flows onto the page
Without me my pen is emotionless, no sorrow, no joy, no rage
It's just a tool than when applied sets my feelings free
The ink entrapping all for me, and the world to see
Am I a writer, I dont know, what I do know is I like to write
And as long as I have pen in hand, and pages clean, and white
The pen will move, the ink will flow, my thoughts will be contained
On page after page of paper, ever so neetly arainged...