Shut it down
Shut it down, shut it off.
Removing one small page of poetry is of no importance nor any loss.
No one will know and no one will care.
To pretend any of it matters really isn’t fair.
I am consumed by disgust for my own creativity and clumsy words.
When I read back over what I’ve written, it’s all just so absurd.
I sink down
Who even cares if I live down there?
Ever the critic,
Judgemental and harsh
Did I really write that?
What a fucking laugh.
Stuck down in a pit
Where my insecurities lie
If I stay there too long
I know all my words will die.
There are days when my inner critic sounds far too loud and I want to shut this page down. However, I remember that most creatives feel like this from time-to-time and I remember a poem (by Tom Alexander) which always encourages me.