Rootless...

I feel like a cut flower,

Slowly withering in a vase. 

My yellow daffodil face turned 

To the sun in vain. 

My stem rots in the waters,

Of my limited existence. 

My roots have been cut away from me. 

My life is played out in a pantomime,

Of colourful promise,

With a very short run. 

I am rootless. 

I have no real home. 

Do I become a writer? How do I become a writer?

Obviously, I write. First and foremost.

But what topic(s) shall I choose? What new insight into the world, conveyed in my native and rather over popular tongue, can capture someone else's attention?

And therein lies one crux of the issue. Attention.

Writing, or any other art form, whilst primarily an exorcism of expression, ultimately seeks attention.
The sheer act of projecting outwardly ones inner thoughts, in any form, will somewhere within the psyche seek attention.
The search for another to resonate with; to feel one's inner dialogue is validated through a stranger's eyes, is a deep part of the creative's make-up. Even the most concentric of beings will covertly seek attention or be pleased with unasked for attention.
The fear of  rejection through inattention may plague and gnaw at a an artist's centre.

This is especially true if the creative becomes public property. Open to all levels of scrutiny.
The wounding of negative scrutiny  is the price of a little praise. 

If I write, I may receive attention - it's not a given. If I do, I will be criticised, whatever the topic.

Can my inner Narcissus take it?

Can I write, is the next question?....Or should my ego have considered that first?.....