Becoming

I was always a writer, but I didn’t always write.
I have forever craved to do so, but not the way I do now, with an eagerness for others to hear my words
That I preach endlessly. To my family, cracking open the computer to recite my poem over dinner even though I know no electronics at the dinner table.
This may, even to me reading this back, sound childish. To live with such a need to be heard. But finally to allow myself to be heard is miraculous, because

I didn’t always write. It took this year’s English class and the past three years of sitting with myself for the desire to grow.
I have a writer's mind, always observing,
Analyzing to a fault people's emotions that encapture me, or circumstances that
I wish so severely to change. Instead, I get to my mind and let its contents flood before me.

Sometimes it’s just for me. For my joy — or grief, to carry my words and have something to show for
When I say
I am a writer; it makes me savor all the minutes of the day where my mind puts me on hold.
Delving deeper into the life I live, new ideas flowering before I can process them in their full bloom.
Creating concoctions of passion and living itself, I get drunk on words.
For to give your words, is to give a side of you maybe you didn’t know was there.

Please, take some time to thank yourself for the nights you are overtaken 
by the maddeningly captivating, racing mind of a writer.