Syllables...
Dear special sentence sculptor, I hope this finds you...
maybe today I'll attempt a poem with sibilance, something to soothe me. something I can enjoy myself...
but… some really cumbersome business all this can often become.
The words haunt me till I sit to write them down,
they simmer and simmer in me but refuse to do any better than that,
I resent what I come up with...
I scrap and scrap. Cancel. Cross out.
Plagued by the the strict voice of my inner critic.
I overthink it, rehearse it like an exercise--- a script to be presented and graded by an equally stern or maybe even stricter tutor-- one who is never satisfied.
I tap delete. tab. Backspace, and the screen blinks right back at me.
I twist and toss my wrists like a writhing thing .
Pin a full stop at the end of my work. I extend it to a trail of ellipses.
I rip a long diagonal line across a full page of writing.
Better a blank page than bland writing. Actually I'm... clueless.
crumpled sheets. do-overs.
crescendo-ing frustration.
I glare at margined and striped paper, stare blankly at my pc screen...
Scrutinise the details, and to me it feels empty. childish...
a bar. the punch is missing... like I hold myself to a personal standard that now seems unattainable.
I swipe my hand across my forehead, gritting my teeth at the labour of head and hand.
Futile?
I strive to outdo my past self. My past work. an unspoken pressure to keep up with a mental ideal.
I scramble for the perfect script that won't wind up as screed... an idea that's not shaping up as I'd wish it to..
A sliver of inspiration surfaces...
I seek the soul-stir...
how I feel ?... gutted in every sense of the word... I try not compare, not to covet... am I complacent?
I sit behind the desk... I get an idea... it fizzles...
I realise, I may be talented, but as much others would deny it... writing requires work...
And maybe as a writer, I draft the talent and labour on it , to release the work ...
I guess the reward is in the finished work after all this labour