I am a writer.

What sort of authority permits me to this claim

What grants me my power, per se,

Is something I can't say.

It's not because I'm pretentious,

Or that I don't like you, or what you do.

But I still can't tell you, so sue...

Me.

Yeah, yeah, it may sound silly

When I try to tell you that writing is a celestial gift

Or that I get my best ideas from interstellar time rifts,

But this is serious business to me.

(Really, don't laugh, I know people.)

But attempts to explain it range from weak to feeble.

Which is a funny word...

English? Pah! Really, writers deserve metals-

Yeah, "metals" like iron ore or

Copper.

Much like the music of a teeny bopper

Writing can be aggravating and ugly and fake

And make you want to gouge out your eyes

Probably (for rhyming purposes) with a rake.

But it can hold the very essence of beauty.

Much unlike a teeny bopper.

Zing! Somebody stop her!

Er...me.

I fall out of patterns easy

Which worries me and makes me queasy

Because what if I slip up?

What if I am forced to drink once more of the cup

Of teenage humiliation, and maybe I don't want

To hold up my acheivements, to prance, to flaunt

About for some second-rate foundation

Which want to grant money for my education?

The pressures to much, look out she'll blow!

A legacy which I never asked for, and what's more

I don't know if I'm even ready to grow up

When it comes to bite, I'm not more than a pup.

I wish I may, I wish I might

Have my parents put me to bed tonight.

Who said I have to move out, move on?

Towards this future which I'm drawn.

I'm just scared so scared

I think I'm losing my hair

Being drawn into a dragon's lair

It's just not-

Okay, now I can't stop.

I'm not a Seussical here

I just wanted to express some genuine fear.

But who isn't afraid, from time to time?

Even the writer.

Even the mime.