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I'm 52 years old I suffer from depression, but manage OK when properly medicated...I like to think myself an artist, and poet...I can get lost in a painting...I can tie down my emotions with my poems...Am I a writer, I wrote this poem..asking the verry same question.

I love the white of the paper, but it wont stay that way

As long as I have pen in hand, and something I must say

I write down all my feelings, my hopes, and my dreams

Trying to make sense in a world thats not always what it seems

I love the smell of the ink as it flows onto the page

Without me my pen is emotionless, no sorrow, no joy, no rage

It's just a tool than when applied sets my feelings free

The ink entrapping all for me, and the world to see

Am I a writer, I dont know, what I do know is I like to write

And as long as I have pen in hand, and pages clean, and white

The pen will move, the ink will flow, my thoughts will be contained

On page after page of paper, ever so neetly arainged...