The pages of drafts and edits could decorate my walls,
each finished book a paperweight, a door stop,
decoration for the shelves
and hideaway for the mind after a long day.
Above all, evidence.
Surely I can’t dispute clear fact?
The voice of blank bears down on me,
drawing up every negative:
comments, remarks, comparisons,
the scattered and scribbled notes in my journal,
scratched out because they weren’t good enough.
Weren’t good enough. Weren’t good enough.
Do I prove it right? Or plug my ears,
gather my notes and map them into sense
just like I did last time?
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