Feeding off others' ideas, do I have an original voice?
If I don't write for some time, is that a realistic choice?
If a week goes by somehow, without putting to paper pen,
The devil within starts badgering, what next, and when?
When you pretend to be a poet, there's a pressure to perform,
To lay bare your innards and suffering, in a ready-to-eat form,
Just add some tears and simmer, the concoction boils to life,
You can serve it slow and sizzling, or let it pierce like a knife.
You smile on your presumed power, that there's magic to your craft,
You can manipulate the reader's feelings, by polishing the first draft.
As you revise and repair ad nauseam, to create the desired impact,
You lose yourself in the process —that's part of your Faustian Pact.
What started as a sacred Odyssey, to heal and find myself,
Is now about you, my reader, to lead towards Heaven, not Hell.
No comments:
Post a Comment