When I was six years old,

I told fairytales,

As I heard them,

Like they were whispered,

In my ear,

And I quietly told,

My friends,

About dragons,



And Towers.

When I was eight,

I poured out my stories,

In a battered notebook,

And never let it,

Out of my sight.

When I was eleven,

I typed my first series,

On our old computer,

And proudly showed my parents.

When I was twelve,

I took a writing class,

And finished the year,

With an F.

Two of my teachers,

Told me that writing,

Was useless,

And that you could never,

Make it far in life,

As long as,

You wrote.

My notebook grew dusty,

And my proudly typed books,

Were shoved underneath my bed,

Because everyone told me,

That writing,

Had no purpose in the world.

My friends don’t remeber,

The stories I told,

And all my low-grade papers,

Sit in a folder,

Mocking me,

Saying that I,

Was not good enough,

Of a writer,

To pass the class.

Years later now,

I understand that,

I can write,

But that does not mean,

That everyone will like it,

And praise me.

I simply must conclude,

That the only person,

Who needs to like my writing,

Is me.

I have millions of unfinshed word docs,

And works yet to write,

But I know,

That I will never give up writing,

As long as,

I enjoy it,

And  not let it,

Be influenced,

By the people,

Who told me,

That writing,

Was useless.



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