The Writer
I love to luxuriate in a book.
There is something good
And wholesome to look
Within a soul. I could
Imagine myself in that world
Where reality is formed.
As I sit and read curled
Within a chair turned
To the fire, I know that
I have a friend, a cell
Companion. Not the cat
For he has no story to tell.
Yet this cosy sense of being;
This relationship with fiction
Turns sour whenever
I seek to write a novel
Of my own. Then the book becomes
An enemy to be defeated at all costs,
A time consuming demon,
Taunting me night and day.
Haunting my waking dreams
And forever weakening my resolve
And questioning, always questioning.
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