A writer is not born
It is made
From hours of toil
From a ceaseless need for perfection,
An unrelenting nagging, ripping the words from your soul,
Forcing them from the quiet depths of the imagination
To the harsh light of the page in front of me.

Goddess get these words out of me,
So many to be written,
On subjects great and subjects small.
The words buzz in their infernal rhythm,
Making me write till my fingers fail

And that’s the easy part
Then comes the doubt
The revising and the endless nagging
Knowing it could be better
And wracking the mind, night and day,
Abusing it mercilessly for that grain of truth.
That golden nugget must be shared, it must be polished and refined
Gleaming golden in the light.  

It seems to easy to put the words down,
Like they flow as ambrosia from the gods.
But every writer remembers the countless hours spent
Late hours fading into sun swept dawns,
When coffee is the only salvation
And every writer remembers the so-soft pillow
Caressing the head of the diligent knight who braved
The immortal dragon, who ne’er can be killed,
and of their eyes closing all too sweetly
Having purged and beat that golden nugget
Until it couldn’t be shinier… smoother... better…

… at least until I read it tomorrow…