Am I a writer?

Every time, lately
when I sit to write
and sort of exhale with a heaviness in my chest
which only half disappears
or chameleonizes itself
on my breath
(I just had a thought... the breath that leaves your body... does it ever truly leave you... or could you follow it like a trail... all the oxygen nitrogen and whatever else lives in the stuff that enters your lungs traces of prints... follow that stuff back to yesterday... last week... to the beginning... find yourself there... watch yourself take your first breath... see the air... like a chain of silver paperclips... all the air you've breathed)
any way
lately when I try to write these blogs
I feel like I've nothing to say
or I feel like what I want to say can't be said...
and then I read this passage
in Virginia Woolf's
Orlando:

-- He was describing, as all young poets are forever describing, nature, and in order to match the shade of green precisely he looked (and here he showed more audacity than most) at the thing itself, which happened to be a laurel bush growing beneath the window. After that, of course, he could write no more. Green in nature is one thing, green in literature another. Nature and letters seem to have a natural antipathy; bring then together and they tear each other to pieces. The shade of green Orlando now saw spoilt his rhyme and split his metre.--

I worry that I have fallen into a thing
a suffocating thing
in 5 days my father will be in this house
my mother still drives me crazy
I feel very lonely
not lost exactly
but locked up

I feel maybe... as if I am not worthy? not
I have creativity
but I don't think I have skill
I am metal
but haven't been formed into a knife
I have fast legs
but I don't know where I am running