Poetry Journal [10]

Stale
Meah Enya Brooks

I let myself off the creative hook again. It’s easier
to call it ‘Writer’s Block’ than to admit a loss of trying,
another excuse for inconsistency. Every day I’m a bit lazier
than I was the day before. And it feels as though I’m lying

to myself, pretending I still feel passion, pretending
that it doesn’t strain my brain to press these words
into existence, words without a purpose or an ending,
words someone else would have worded better, words

which escape my brain, my fingers, my understanding.
What am I, a writer? To who? Since when? Since when
did I write and feel anything other than inadequacy? Handing
myself a free pass from old, rehashed stories which by then

barely resonate, don’t resonate – they’ve marinated for
so long, soaking in age and doubt, paranoia and fear,
they’ve become more emotion than expression, more
unoriginal feeling than original thought. And I’m here,

in every word, in all the fallacious whispers and
proclamations of talent, embarrassed by having not
lived up to any elusive potential. I’m here, standing
on the arch of every a, in the curve of every o, on the dot

of every i, giving myself up for judgement, putting
my head on the chopping block. But the thing which
comes to chop my head is my own hand. Nothing
is not self-inflicted, no pain is an idea I didn’t pitch

and sell to myself.

The words are as stale as my passion but maybe
my passion’s still here. Maybe it went into hiding;
maybe it was hiding from my fear. I’m still here, daily,
writer or not, trying to try, passionless or petrified, siding

with a thought that insists, ‘This is still for you.’

 

 

Side note: A poem I just finishing writing at 5am. I’m still a bit tipsy. Kind of about self-doubt (a common theme, it seems).