I came out of the womb a writer.
I am certain.
However, I didn't accept that I was a writer until age nineteen.
That year I made a choice--we all have to make one, or more, eventually.
That year, I had once again, been rejected by a man I was too good for
my spirit was at odds with me
because it knew I was wasting potential
by trying to impress girls far beneath me.
It punished me because I needed it.
It hated me because I hated myself,
and far from understanding the worth of my own skin, I mutilated it
with self-depricating thoughts.
And, my spirit thought,
"Well, if she wants to do that, then so be it."
For the best of them only learn by first torturing themselves with things
But see, I'm not one who avoids,
I am one who jumps head first into
Because I can't help wanting that which is not meant to be mine.
I pull and prod and chase,
chase, chase, chase,
long and hard,
until I am breathing heavy
and wishing I had turned away.
I could have avoided that. I could have prevented myself pain.
But the best words are born
out of the heart that pushes against itself.
I turn the volume up to hear the cries
I could have avoided that. I could have prevented pain.
But I chase the words because I have no choice.
I've accepted my fate.
It's too late to change my mind.
And I wouldn't if I could.