I have a recurring nightmare
That my pen has dried up,
And have said all I could say
Emptied myself completely-
Bottom of the barrel kind of stuff:
I sit down to write
But all that comes up
Are tired old stories
Repeated repeatedly
Staring back at me on the page
And morphing into the voice
Of my inner critic
That I am all too familiar-
‘’You’re done’ it says
‘You never belonged here,
Your pen will be dry from now on,
Never to flow again’
I then wake up in a sweat
And immediately reach for my pen
For I know that this
Relentless, damning voice
That shows up again and again
To tell me I have no right to be here
Is not in fact the death knoll
That it threatens to be
But rather an unusual supplier
Regularly providing me
With more material
About which to write.
Dry pen?
Write about it.
heartinscriber 