I am always playing devil's advocate
(and especially with)
It can be crippling.
The artist whose mind can paint pictures of forests full of poppies
sleeping Dorothy, dreaming
skies full of sparkling glass
shattering, singing until their dust creates a pulse of life
in every object it encounters;
who can give voices and songs to silence
and hears music in teardrops which water the seeds
of loss making room for growth of the new and unknown,
this artist can be halted
The devil can critique,
find worms to eat black holes into any argument
even the most magical or inspirational.
He can complain of 'what is the point
in writing all this?'
You're a worn down pencil
with barely enough carbon to smear out a word,
white knuckled hands clutching
onto an idea escaping like water through grains of sand back into the always constant, eroding and all-consuming ocean.
Why make the castles?
It's completely illogical.
Your ideas are all flawed.
And like a delicious red apple who
you go bite
and find that worm hollowing in brown decay,
you toss it completely, before you realize that the other half of the apple