Opening my notebook,
My darkness scurries to every corner, hissing
Every page illuminating like a burning star
The pencil now, leaping to its loving light.

With each letter,
Each word,
Engraved into my notebook,
Never to be moved by any living being.

My mind wonders, judging, ever so judging,
Every piece,
A critic’s nightmare, turned masterpiece,
How can I be taking such credit?

I didn’t write this piece.
I haven’t written any of them.
Why did all of them have to be published?
The fortune, even the fame couldn’t fix anything.

The book closes,
The darkness emerges,
I had almost longed its return,
The notebook remained untouched.

Next day,
The opening process commences,
All light returns,
However, the darkness stays in the mind.

The page of work,
Now a novel,
The common houses hold language,
Transformed into scholar text.

I am not the writer,
I am not the darkness,
I am not the notebook,
I am the inspiration.