A writer, I am becoming.

I wasn’t born with a pen in my hand.

No lightning bolt struck.

No gods whispered,

“Kate, you are chosen.”

 

I just hurt,

Quietly.

And words,

Were the only things that stayed,

When everything else left.

 

It started as scribbles in the margins,

Secrets in notebooks,

Truths I was too scared to say out loud.

I didn’t know it was writing.

I just knew it was survival.

 

I wrote like I was bleeding ink.

Each sentence a stitch.

Each page a place to rest,

When the world felt too loud,

And I was too much.

 

People asked,

“Are you a real writer?”

As if the title comes with a trophy.

As if it requires permission.

 

They didn’t see the nights I tore up paragraphs,

Because they didn’t sound brave enough.

Didn’t see me wrestle with silence,

Until it gave me a line worth keeping.

Didn’t hear the voice in my head whisper,

“You’re not good enough,”

and the louder one that answered,

“Write anyway.”

 

Becoming a writer,

Wasn’t a moment.

It was a choice I made,

Every time I could have stopped but didn’t.

 

Now I speak in metaphors,

Think in rhythms.

I touch hearts I’ll never meet,

With words they’ll never forget.

 

That’s magic.

That’s power.

That’s real.

 

So no,

I wasn’t born a writer.

I became one,

Line by stubborn line.

Pain into poetry.

Chaos into craft.

 

And maybe I’m still becoming one.

But the pen is mine now.

And I know how to use it.