I am a pingpong ball
Between two mortal parts of me.
Holden Caulfield calls out my name,
From the book that I just kept aside,
About a thought that was just born
Right around the sharp corner
Inside the labyrinth of my mind.
He was never a catcher, I suppose
For I hop onto my train of thought
To travel miles away to mystic lands
Before he can lure me in, again.
The writer in me remains dormant,
Partly because Mr. Darcy seems more intriguing
Than ranting about a writer’s block.
It’s far too much effort to negate a weakness
By romanticizing it, you see.
The immortal reader in me
Wins the tug of war against the mortal writer,
Who is tuned in
To the frequency of Denial 101:
A channel of self criticism.
These two act more like Zeus and Posiedon,
Than enemies at war.
So, when I curl up in the warm folds of reading,
It tells me to go live my life,
And write my heart out.
And when I make myself comfortable
On a coffee date with writing,
It tells me to follow my heart,
And write again.
Unlike most days,
Scout finally let Atticus Finch go to the courthouse,
And with that,
The reader rested in peace for a while,
As the writer
Surrendered to the poet
Completed this poem.