To be honest, there's nothing I love more than being a writer
They say, to be one, there's nothing you really need to do
Except put the thoughts and words you wish to relay
In smooth ink that flows over the rugged, pale paper
That's all it takes, they say
It makes a bitter laugh escape from my chest
'Oh really? ' I think nastily
They have no idea.
But never mind, for truly, I love being a writer.
There's this bitter feeling that curls in my gut, though
That seems to wrap  itself around my neck, stifling me
Whenever I look down at the scribbled words, words I wrote
And hear the disembodied, treacherous whisper hiss in my ear
'That's not good enough. '
It seems to cut through the elation and wonder
I feel reading another's work
That has left me astounded, amazed
It whispers this time
'You can never dream to write like that. '
I try to force the thoughts away, repeat to myself
'You're doing this for yourself'
After all, there's nothing I love more than being a writer.
But when I'm sitting glaring at my pen
Looking at an empty page that seems to stare me down
The mocking drawl comes again
'You didn't think you'd actually suceed, did you? '