I Am a Writer Too

You’re a writer? I am too. My brother is. My father is. We all write. I am asked to critique, but I refuse, for I am not a critic or an influencer. My muse Trixie yells things - kick them, run away, hit them in the head. She is much more daring than I and cares not for social cues. When I write something politically outrageous, I blame Trixie. She loves the attention – twirling with happiness at the acclaim. My show-off, extraverted personae; I am the one who slinks away. Drawing cartoons about you, to appease my other selves. I write ten to thirty poems a day; this may not sound like much. But I had this as my goal three years ago, and I have met it. I am constantly writing around my job, you cannot ask people though. They do not know. They think I am typing important stuff for work. I am throwing poems and stories onto clean crisp white pages. I stop everything I am doing when humans come in with spying eyes. I do not tell anyone I am a writer; okay, maybe two people know. The rest of them would just say “I’m a writer too” so I keep mum.