I'M WRITING TO EXPRESS, NOT TO IMPRESS

 

They ask me,

"Why do you write?"

For fame? For likes? For readers?

Honestly, no.

I write because some feelings can’t be spoken.

Because some nights are too heavy to carry in silence.

Because pain needs a place to go and for me, that place is words.

I’m not here to impress anyone.

I write to express.

To bleed without blood.

To cry without making noise.

To scream on paper when I can’t raise my voice in real life.

There are days I doubt myself.

Am I really a writer?

Is this even worth reading?

Will anyone care?

But then I remember:

I don’t write for applause.

I write for the boy inside me who never felt heard.

For the tears I swallowed.

For the dreams I buried because the world said, "Not you."

I write when I feel misunderstood.

I write when I miss someone I can’t text.

I write when the world becomes too loud and I need a softer way to exist.

My grammar may not be perfect.

My lines may not rhyme.

But my words are real.

And that’s enough for me.

Let others chase perfection.

Let others decorate their pages with filters and fancy quotes.

I’ll stay here ,

raw,

broken,

honest 

because I’m writing to express, not to impress.

I’m Not a Writer

I tell myself this often.

“I’m not a writer.”

Not in the way they define it.

I don’t write every day.

I don’t follow writing rules.

I don’t have perfect grammar.

Sometimes, I don’t even know what I’m saying until I say it.

So I say: “I’m not a writer.”

Maybe I say I’m not a writer because I’m scared of claiming it.

Because if I call myself a writer, people will expect too much from me.

Or worse… they’ll laugh.

But here’s the truth:

I’ve written through heartbreak.

I’ve written during breakdowns.

I’ve written things I couldn’t say to anyone — not even myself out loud.

I don’t write to impress.

I don’t write to be remembered.

I write because I don’t know how else to breathe.

Writers, they say, create stories.

I don’t.

I spill.

I spill my loneliness.

I spill my unsaid feelings into lines no one will read.

I spill all the things I never had the courage to say to anyone.

And then I close it and pretend I’m okay.

So maybe I am a writer.

Not by definition.

But by survival.

I write because I need to.

Because the world doesn’t make sense until I spill it on a page.

Because sometimes, the only way I understand my own feelings is when I reread them.

So no,

I may not be the kind of writer you find in bookstores.

But I’m the kind that bleeds between lines and stitches pain into sentences.

And if even one person feels less alone reading my words,

then I’ve already done more than any award could offer.

I’m not a writer.

I’m just a boy with too many emotions and too little space in this world.

But if you read this and feel something then maybe that’s enough.