Sometimes I write to be free
And nothing motivates me
Beyond staring at the paper

Begs me to write
Almost quivers in anticipation
For words to be carved into its wood pulp surface

Of emotions creep up, slow tentacles
Slithering leathery skin up my arms
Closing in around my neck
To squeeze words out of my brain

Fears success of my written word
Fears inadquacy measured up against her peers and idols
Those who may know of me but, upon meeting me,
Must realize I’m a fraud

Betraying their reader instincts
Believing I, the wizard behind the curtain was, in fact
Just a curtain