Anatomy of a writer

My ink is dry once again. I feel I must try, and then Shall I retire my quill? To the thrill of the Doubters, And haters, And damn non-believers. I do not look a certain way. Unlike a writer, I’ve heard you say. Must I look brighter? Take a good look at me, And see the premature wrinkles of a 21 year old girl, Who’s troubles doubled the day she tried to handle the world Take a look, Inside my mind, at the many books of inspiration I’ve read. And the other ones I prefer instead. Of teenage wizard, or long lost love, Of Middle Earth, Or anything else I’ve understood. Take a look upon my body. See the scars of paper cuts? Never fatal nor intentional, Though ever present. And did I mention? The scars of ink I’ve chosen to wear. Exclusive to Claire. Which inspire me more than your cigarettes and smoky breath. Take a look upon my hands. Dry, no doubt. Nails perfectly painted in a colour to match my mood that day. Today, they’re grey. Decorated by one single ring upon my finger. Not that finger. A gift from my sister, Who saw the hands, and heart, and crown. And knew I needed it. She could see that it was the final part of my masterpiece; My hands. Which speak to people far and wide. Take a look upon my face. Perfectly painted, each eyelash in place. I don’t try to hide, I simply try to decorate. And celebrate. Everything I have come to be is thanks to me. I may work in a shop. I don’t travel, or smoke. I may be the butt of your intellectual joke. I may have dropped out of college and you may have a degree. At least I can see my future ahead. I would dread yours instead. I’ve written each day since the day I turned 10. No, I won’t retire my quill. Through it all, I have been stripped bare. Writing may not pay my bills. But it’s my air. Take a look at my appearance now. Do I look brighter? How dare you say that I’m not a writer.Anatomy of a writer My ink is dry once again. I feel I must try, and then Shall I retire my quill? To the thrill of the Doubters, And haters, And damn non-believers. I do not look a certain way. Unlike a writer, I’ve heard you say. Must I look brighter? Take a good look at me, And see the premature wrinkles of a 21 year old girl, Who’s troubles doubled the day she tried to handle the world Take a look, Inside my mind, at the many books of inspiration I’ve read. And the other ones I prefer instead. Of teenage wizard, or long lost love, Of Middle Earth, Or anything else I’ve understood. Take a look upon my body. See the scars of paper cuts? Never fatal nor intentional, Though ever present. And did I mention? The scars of ink I’ve chosen to wear. Exclusive to Claire. Which inspire me more than your cigarettes and smoky breath. Take a look upon my hands. Dry, no doubt. Nails perfectly painted in a colour to match my mood that day. Today, they’re grey. Decorated by one single ring upon my finger. Not that finger. A gift from my sister, Who saw the hands, and heart, and crown. And knew I needed it. She could see that it was the final part of my masterpiece; My hands. Which speak to people far and wide. Take a look upon my face. Perfectly painted, each eyelash in place. I don’t try to hide, I simply try to decorate. And celebrate. Everything I have come to be is thanks to me. I may work in a shop. I don’t travel, or smoke. I may be the butt of your intellectual joke. I may have dropped out of college and you may have a degree. At least I can see my future ahead. I would dread yours instead. I’ve written each day since the day I turned 10. No, I won’t retire my quill. Through it all, I have been stripped bare. Writing may not pay my bills. But it’s my air. Take a look at my appearance now. Do I look brighter? How dare you say that I’m not a writer.