Here, in the last hour, I have no voice.
Before, I fought out my inadequacies
On this page,
Thorough and gut-spilling self-examination
Well-versed shots at my own heart
But this feels different.
Mediocrity has come for me
After a protracted pursuit.
I always wrote to defend myself, thinking,
If I surgically unearthed my soul
And put it on display,
The mediocrity would sigh
Instead, it is entrenched;
Having taken up a position on all my flanks
Not to attack but worse, to mute.
And my defense, my mighty pen against this sword,
And this repeats in my ear-
No one can stop you from being an unknown writer.