The blank page is my enemy, when I write I force it to succumb to me.
My pen’s even afraid of me.
I wrestle and battle but it still isn’t convinced you see.
I choke out with one hand if you write you understand.
My thoughts are no better. They act up and shout.
They try to scramble away my grasp but have to get ‘em out.
Critiques start to fill my head - nope. Won’t let it in.
Nobody told you that the first draft would be this dread?
A day, a month, a year later, who knows? I've lost track of time.
But the pen and the paper are finally mine.
The words are pleading. I can’t hear ‘em.
I’ve plunged myself deeper into my mind.
I free my rage, my sadness. The energy of all my madness.
My fist hits the paper like a freight train, it cries out,
But I’m already making the vision plain.
I flick the wrist as the words bleed across the page.
I’m so violent with the pen, it nearly has a heart attack.
I write so vigorously fast Usain Bolt will be considered last.
Ooh, didn’t mean to go that fast.
I self-publish, it’s not rubbish.
Writing. You can’t rush it, nobody’s above it.
I edit the author every day. It’s an unfinished novel that won’t be paid...for.
Can’t get this book on any shelf.
My writing will riot. It’ll make you excited.
May be electrifying.
But even then, my mind won’t be quiet.
So I grab a piece of paper, a pencil, and a pen.
Then the whole writing process starts all over again