You Ask What It's Like (To Be A Writer) Poem by Jesse Ellsbury

You ask what it’s like to be a writer,
it’s like something out of your worst nightmare:
hundreds of characters living in your head,
telling their stories, demanding to be read
once you’ve written them down.

They speak not to speak, they speak to be heard,
and you’ll learn to mimic their words like a bird
because otherwise they won’t disappear,
they’ll talk so loud you won’t be able to hear
enough to still survive.

You ask what it’s like to be a writer,
well imagine your load is a little bit lighter;
I’ve learned how to insulate with words,
use them as a salve when I’ve been hurt,
create the best out of what was the worst
I had to endure, I am sure:
my writing will last longer
than the people I write for.

I create worlds with boys and girls
who are uglier inside than out;
It’s not far removed from what God chose to do
when he pulled us out of the ground.
But the worlds I invent
don’t always end in death
and even the dead ones still live,
and when characters are in pain
they can relive their fame
by flipping back to page six.

You ask what it’s like to be a writer,
well, ironically words can’t describe it,
it’s bad and good all rolled into one,
just like everything else I’ve done.
It’s not full-blown schizoid blues,
it’s just a vocation I’m bound to lose
so I write for myself and if anyone else
happens to like it, then cool.

I can’t lie to a piece of paper,
the truth is, I need validation
but I don’t write to fulfill that need,
it’s just second nature – I write like I bleed
and it has the same result:
people look at me and question my health.