I read so many books that I began
to wonder if I would ever have an
original thought of my own, my
head almost full of others’ inklings,
Their adventures and imaginings.
Concerned there was no room left
for my own creations,I became
paranoid that I was a plagiarist.
Every time I read something new
(to me), There was something on
the page that I had previously
Considered. I was convinced I
had thought of it first, but these
notions had been penned life-times
before mine. Each time, I cursed
the creators, loathing the word-smiths
I worshipped. Finally, I accepted
the possibility that more than one
mortal mind could conceive a clever
catalyst, I just had to deliver mine
a different way, hope my style made
it my own; or pray my manuscript
was read before those of my conjoined
thinkers. And all the time, I wondered
if they had these thoughts and fears,
These insecurities and doubts.
Literature is truly a precious baby,
And ultimately, even when produced
Through despair and dark desire,
It is always a loving conception.