I Want To Write

A little insight into what I want my future to be like.


1. I Want To Write

I want to write.
I want to inform people about the issues that rack our world
and the bombs that knock entire nations from their feet.
I want to be the face of eloquence, the glamourous woman
whose guts inspires girls to be like me;
independent, intelligent.
I want to have thousands hanging off every word I write
and craving each and every syllable I utter.
I want to stand up in the name of literature and become,
in all senses of the phrase, a genre’s saving grace.
I want to see people looking up to me, and I want to say
that I.
Little, worthless me.
I inspired something, someone.
I want to change someone’s life just like so many writers
have done to my very own, for one reason.
This isn’t for me. It’s not for the fame, the movie rights,
not even an extortionate amount of money.
If I even gain a single true fan,
someone who knows my poems, my plotlines
from the inside out, someone who creates fanfictions
about the characters that came from my mind,
draws art of the settings I described, holds a battered copy
of my first ever novel in their hands more than anyone.
If that ever happens, I will be happy to go on,
content that I will be eternal in a person’s memory, a person
who may never have known me or seen me in the flesh.
I want to write.
I want to be idolised and to be a role model to young girls
all over the world, to show that if I could make a difference,
then so could they.
I want to write my words and inspire them to do so as well.
I want to matter.
Like the painters and presidents that you read about in History books,
like the martyrs in bibles and killers in the news.
That’s what matters to me, my words and mattering.
I don’t want to be a boring little nobody,
or a housewife in the suburbs, on the brink of piercing the bubble
of a could-be, will-never-be city, unsure of what would’ve happened
if I’d just taken that one final, fleeting chance that slipped
through my aching, trembling fingers, looking back and thinking

I wanted to write.
I wanted to tell people my story and not hope that they would listen.
I wanted to have people who knew me and people who
wanted to know me.
And now, what do I have?
A life no better than any other, sat at home alone each day
wistfully blaming my past self for the decisions I made and have to
deal with each and every day.
I wanted to write.

I will write again.


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