Hey, book lovers.
I haven’t shared one of my poems in a little while. This one’s more about the inner critic of writing. Here you go, I hope you like it!
My Inner Critic
She’s the one that has me up against the pillow at night
clutching its soft surface amongst all of my fury and despair
holding onto words that don’t really belong
and phrases I would never dare to say.
Her heart is only a concept
she is no kind of reality, of skin or bones
but when I read over old words
her power bears something close to home.
She has me with resentment-filled pupils
when I read over the words and stories of my past
To fulfil an ignorance of her contemptuous judgements would be a dream
but she speaks far too loud
screams her opinions in my ear
and forces the hate up from my gut.
I begin to question every word I have written
each line becomes a wrong
a painful mistake
and I put the pen down.
I read over past stories
written in lined-paper notebooks and pads
and the words, being too inadequate for my vain associate
line my skin like scars.
She asks only for perfection
nothing else will ever be good enough
but I will have to stay away
if she is to not affect how my fingers mark each future page.