“How does it feel to be a writer?”

I smile and take a sip of my orange Tanqueray

“I don’t know…how does it feel to be human?”

The room laughs

The flashbulbs explode

But it was not a Coward style quip

It was a genuine question.

Every second of my life

Words flash through my flaming mind

There’s no silence

No elusion.

When it’s good, it is great

A poem from out of the air

People admiring my prose.

When it’s bad

It is sleepless nights

It’s a feeling of eternal sinking

Never being good enough

Never being talented enough.

It’s a brand new blade to the wrist

Just to be able to breathe

Just to be able to function.

I keep this all in, of course

My veteran guard is always up.

“Being a writer is fine!”

I answer wackily

Before dropping my drink

And leaving the stressful party

A party I could never feel comfortable at

When I could never feel comfortable in life.