heavy on my shoulders, whispering
reasons why my work is worthless--
senseless sentiment blistering
in pustules make-up barely masks.
For far too long, I've listened
thinking this must be my teacher.
He hardly lets me think my thoughts
before he turns to preacher;
sermonizing how I might become
clearer, better, much more clever.
Time has taught me he's never satisfied
by any artistic endeavor I might attempt.
I sit motionless, feeling the wind
fill me with fresh, fragrant clarity.
I see that his unasked for charity
is not a kindness. I've ceased listening.
His heavy weight has forced my hiding
hunchbacked, in darkened caverns
glistening with tears.
His hallowed voice that once seemed wise
rasps with my own haunting fears.
But he's losing his grasp.
I shirk my aching shoulders to the wind
and with a sense of soaring weightless,
I begin to write again.
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