NOTE: A poem about writers and how sometimes it's quite troublesome

Who am I,
To paint a picture,
Without using my hands?
Who am I,
To crave a diffrent kind of love,
Just to survive?
Who am I,
To cling to an imaginary reality,
Just to live?
Who am I,
To grace this world,
And give nothing in return?
Who am I,
To give you an image,
Using only empty words?
Who am I,
To play a song in your mind,
Without using an instrument,
Who am I,
To hypnitize your imagination,
And command it to consume your heart?
Who am I,
To drown you in a strange sense of passion,
And never let you go?
Who am I,
To sink into an imagenary world,
And only rise wen I feel fit?
Who am I,
To use magic to fill the emptyness of words,
And then let them haunt you?
Who am I,
To fool with your thoughts,
And pull your emotional strings?
Who am I,
To control your every thought,
Like a living puppet?
Who am I,
To do these things?
Who am I,
But a writer?