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

And retreat.

 

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,

Cowers.

And this repeats in my ear-

No one can stop you from being an unknown writer.