Lording over my mind is the opposing me,
My other, my daemon, my Yahweh,
Who cradles my creativity and mocks my output,
Who fills my soul with fire and freezes my writing hand,
Who overloads my mind with mystical manifestations
But leaves my notebook pages as barren as
The unfortunate mother’s womb.
I want to subvert this reign of tyranny and free my mind;
But to overthrow this opposing me is to overthrow my creativity,
Which it of course knows and dangles contemptuously in my face.
“Here is your genius–take hold of it!” my daemon cries;
But as I reach out, the prize vanishes, and I question
If it was ever truly there at all.
“How can you ever have what you don’t believe ever existed?”
I scream a voiceless response at the top of my lungs,
And then sink down dejectedly in bitter defeat,
Cursing with all the wrong words my lack of faith in the nonexistent.