Back To The Basis..

My passion, the way I thrive, has been eluding me. It seems that those around me regard my art highly; I ask why, internally. I have dozens of notebooks scattered and long ago begotten. Half of what I've collectively scribed has long since been forgotten.

I realized my interest when my sister would write. It wasn't until a rewritten sex poem I did in middle school that I discovered the limelight. The rhythm, the rhyme, the dopamine was sublime. I cherished the feeling of making the boys congratulate me and hide their hard-ons at the same.. damn.. time.

I knew then that it was my calling, my talent, my niche. So, why do I get upset at fellow writers and secretly scorn said "bitch?" They do what I do, but sustain their confidence while I sit back and waste time reading other people's shit!

Fuck this, let's get rich!

Actually, I would rather be noted as a well-versed chick. Be amongst Eric Jerome, Sistah Souljah, Zane, and the "Flyy Girl" writ.. I don't envy, I appreciate, because many were bred for this. So, please, drop a line and let me know you read it.