Like any young person, my life has been awash with the evil task of defining myself. Madonna or whore. Sidekick or spotlight. Blonde or brunette. It's all left me stuck with the realization that I'm a psuedo-redhead who fills notebooks to the brim. Neither writer nor poet. Maybe just a little too much of each. A dreamer or philosopher. A couch potato who likes long walks along waterfalls. I don't know what my art is and can't define my creations. I don't know who I am, where I'm from, or what I'll be tomorrow. I'm the mother and the underdog. I'm the inspiration and the constructive critic. I'm always too much and never quite enough. No one reads my words and those who do never have anything to say. It leaves me once more on my own. Wondering who the hell I think I am and thinking this piece may have looked better as alliterated free verse rather than fragment plagued prose.
On a lighter note, I'm a 25 year old female adult child who lives in Oregon but still considers herself a Pennsylvanian. I go to school. I listen to music. I take pictures. I write stories/novels/poems. I do everything else that all the other girls in the world do. I'll never be as cool as you are, and I don't really need anyone to point that out to me. I don't really care anymore. Some people think I'm special, and some just think I should ride the short bus. Even more people have absolutely no opinion on the topic of me. You can decide for yourself. The choice is yours.
As Anthony Burgess wrote - "Eat this sweetish segment or spit it out. You are free."
