Hunger

I first realized my love for writing at 13.

22 years I've held onto my dream.

It feels like the world has been fighting me tooth & nail for it.

Writing was the only safe place for my whimsy.

Writing was the one thing I have yearned to do, even outside of what the world demands from me.

I've turned my back on many other "opportunities" to remain true to my art.

The starving artist would rather starve.

Would I really rather starve than not write?

What would be the point of eating if I couldn't?

I once had some decent money.

An apartment of my own.

A car however raggedy.

A little piece of title.

But I didn't write so much.

It wasn't worth it.

Sold more & more of my time for just around average at jobs that beat my body & dulled my mind.

I didn't have to think much to do it.

Thankfully I kept my mind alive with dreaming.

And fixing places that needed it but didn't care.

I had to leave to show my value.

I have to write to make it worth it.

I think writing has always been the love of my life.

Everything else is just what I feed it with.