I’m indecisive about what to become, there are so many options to choose from, maybe I should become a doctor, be kind and save lives, or a lawyer, rip off the blindfold from mother justice’s eyes so she can clearly slay evil with her machete or maybe I should become an engineer, or a nurse or an economist so I can be like Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala someday or maybe I’ll just become a writer make people feel things with my words, make them cry, laugh, angry draw empathy from them be all powerful and in control of other’s emotions, hmm very tempting but I think I’ll rather be a book
but not just any book, a writer’s book. I want to feel the tip of a pen tickle my skin as emotions are being released into me in form of words, I want to be that lucky canvas a writer paints that wordy masterpiece on. I want my skin to sing and tangle as you empty your heart out for your lover on me. Don’t be scared for I won’t be here only for the good stuff, I’ll stick around when you are sad, angry and heartbroken and you need to write, I’ll still be here, even when your tears sock me deep and smug your words, I’ll still flip the next page even when your anger is red and burns hotter than blue flame, I’ll still be here. When you make me your container of secrets, spill spill spill seal tight and Turk away safely hidden from the world, I’ll be quiet and stay hidden. No don’t worry about me, I won’t be lonely, I’ll have your breathtaking words to keep me company.
Writers Write 