Besides the fact I hardly ever take the time to sit down with a pen and my notebook, the times I do I come to the same conclusion. I lack a story. Now, I have plenty of tales to tell, and situations to explain, and ideas to expand on, but I lack a purpose. I've been searching for my purpose in the world, and now I've been searching for a purpose in writing. That is the beauty of expression. There doesn't have to be any purpose, if it makes you feel like you get your idea out into the world, then it is worth it. Still, I would like to know what my story is now, it would save me from a lot of shit later on.
I don't feel like a poet... So I don't know why I consider myself to be one. I have invested myself into the local atmosphere of writing, and still? I feel like the odd one of the group, the penny in the field of nickles. They breathe every word constantly, and I feel like my writing is just a cigarette break.
Sometimes I wish that I was like them. Those people you admire so much but are afraid to tell.
The people with a story to yell, who actually know who they are. Who have something to share with the world.
I don't know who I am yet.
wall·flow·er
[wawl-flou-er]
noun
1.
a person who, because of shyness, unpopularity, or lack of a partner, remains at the side at a party or dance.
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