I Don’t Care What They Say About Being a Writer
It’s a mess but it’s the only thing that belongs to me, the story of my life.
Another survivor that lived to tell the story, I’m still standing among the wreckage picking at the scraps to rebuild my life.
Broken sentences strung together — that’s what I call my poetry, my writing. Maybe more like a raging torrent of thoughts and feelings bleeding out from a raw wound.
Talking’s never been my thing, so this chaotic outburst is all I manage.
Raw, unfiltered, and occasionally littered with errors. But this is my starting point. Maybe someday, with practice, I’ll craft more polished and beautiful work.
Thank you to the amazing teachers here who help me learn and grow. We never stop learning in life.
“Writing? Is that even a real job?”
I’ve seen people trying hard to hide their disbelief with smiles that never reach their eyes.
Every conversation feels so shallow with total disregard for intellectual pursuits.
“How much are you making?”
No ranking in the big earner’s league? Then, you’re just a nobody to them.
