Is like an invisible arm
Restraining my hand with an iron grip,
Keeping my hand from
Giving the words in my mind
A chance to reach the page.
It’s as though the mere sight
Of unvarnished thoughts
Are confirmation of my deepest doubts
About my ability to write.
And so rather than bear the pain of seeing
I’d rather see a blank page,
Somehow convincing myself
That it is better this way.
But the beauty of the writing process
Is that often,
Hidden amongst the awkward sentences
And ill fitting phrases
Are glimpses of something I can be proud of.
And so I’ve come to know
That if I sit with my first drafts for long enough,
What starts out as trash
Can turn out to be the raw material of a