by Andrea Jones
Just my experience with being a writer.
It's not how,
It used to be.
It doesn't fit my personality,
I wonder what's infected me.
I was an innocent child,
As sweet as one could be,
But now I write things which aren't mild,
People are starting to worry about me.
Do you say it's the writer in me?
That I'm finally growing into what I'm meant to be?
Or that it's something you can't see,
Some dark thoughts taking control of me?
I don't mind either way,
My imagination is ever growing,
When people ask,
I just shrug and say,
As long as the ideas keep flowing.