by Cole McNamara / perilpoet

Am I a writer?
I scribble a little,
I scratch and I scraw,
a line here and there.

I can’t be a writer.
I quibble a little,
I snort and I scoff
and think to myself.

I might be a writer.
I squiggle a little,
I reason and rhyme
to you here and there.

I must be a writer.
I start to glow brighter
as my pen grows lighter.
I set fire to the paper,
and ink’s the igniter.

I am a writer.

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