Sometimes your mind races a zillion to one, inspirational haze to burn a trail ten horses wide with creative intent and not a thought of that old demon called doubt, its insidious little whispers drowned out by the hoofs of the beasts that level all but the faintest hint. The commotion winds down, furious motion to the calmly still of the manic’s work, such relentless forces reside purely in a solitary gem resting temptingly on the ground.
You precariously edge, a hastened slow to claim the solitary gem, but there it stands… Not big or threatingly but a smallish imp, those once little whispers a much louder taunt to cause your stop. “Is it good enough” the impish demon shouts, voice armed with your doubt, “how dare you think you deserve to call yourself a writer” cruelly continues the painful barrage of self loathing deceit.
But the hollow emotional state in which that depressive counter rage fights as a cornered creature of even stronger stuff takes center stage, meniceling stepping around that treasured gem of a poetic vent “You want to claim the fortune?” accusingly asks the passively angry beast “you are but a thing that channels some more powerful force, one you know you don’t deserve”
You stumble weakly, try not to show just how much you hate dealing with the wretched thing you thanklessly see in reflective glass, but the poison has hit its mark “I do this not for applause, not even my real name is attached to this fated work” a laugh so hidiously as to curdle even the face of the impish doubt “but I hath lost sanity and all else to be what I am, so by the damned I will play this sorry hand”
Gem firmly gripped and raised above “Even if this kills me, I’ll be dead by my own terms” you rebelliously throw it to the crowds, doubt but a coward, to be mercilessly consumed by the shadow of that depressive rage, you guardian angel in fallen form.
So I write to please my own fractured self, no cheers will be heard until I’m sure I can be safely insulated from prides imploding touch, and should the theatre remain coldly silent, well I’m chillingly dead inside so who the fuck cares!
My only weapon against all that seeks to kill me, the creative storm of unmeasurable strength, is mine to possess but not control, so why fight the urge when my pen hits the page.
“The words of a poet on a dark day
Echo into corridors of time with no regard
For a poet on a dark day
Will stain the very earth with every poison
And reckless wrath
A word may convey”