What you really like

No really, what was it that you thought,
Were your humanly intention towards all of it false?
Did you think you can chew poetry,
And spill out art?
But really, what was it that you thought?
Since age of 7, I scribble words together to make sense,
Through an awkward teenage of joining stanzas for the same.
Because in layers you can do and undo me,
I almost feel like a library.
There are parts of me you can pick and unpick,
Pieces of me you can read and borrow.
I know that I don't own these feelings like the fictional characters,
But neither do you, for you borrowed.
Since eight, I've been clenching dreams in my fist,
A weapon of my choice, a pen filled with some ink.
Since whenever I can remember,
I've had a war inside my head;
To write, create, implement and to be read.
So tell me if we rebel and call it art,
Or they're just words kept unorganised in a cart.
For in the meadows and the shadows, I still write,
Just to know what is it that you really like?