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.