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


and future.

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.

Happy reading!