Updated: Feb 1, 2020
I don’t want to be like Kafka And burn the whole lot. But a writer has to have So much self-belief To not hate the paper they touch.
One voice builds me up And another knocks me down. I never know when I’m staggering from my height or from unstable foundations.
I am a yo-yo, a compass needle Always drawn back to my arrogance.
Sometimes I abuse my writing To pick apart my past, Self-analyse the way I was taught. My characters become my narcissism.
Sometimes I indulge a voice or two. They’ll push my inhibitions aside. They’ll therapize me, Remind me that I do have a creative streak.
Other times I try to pacify them all So that no sound comes from my lips. No voices left: nothing to write; Nothing to witness; nothing to burn.
But I don’t want to live like that: Encircled by flames, Ready to throw myself on the pyre Out of shame.
I’ve never been one not to rise to a challenge.