I am a pastor and poet. I have visible friends in my pastoral work. But in poetry, only an invisible friend. His name is Cupcake. He lost his frosting long ago, bald, blunt, pompous, persnickety: dots and crosses are the burdens he carries. He's tougher than Roger Ebert He tells me I'm an illiterate fool. He's a workaholic too, 24/7: I hear his negativity throughout the day and in my nightmares. He reminds me to focus on mediocrity and leave the good and best to the rest.
I'm seeing a psychiatrist.
I took his rib out to create a female invisible friend. That only doubled my trouble, plus she was an irritating backseat driver.
But I'm in the arena, the ring, as it were, currently lying on the canvas. Even my best poetry lacks the punch of Suger Ray's left hook. 10,9,8,7,6,5,4,3, 2. I stumble to my feet, only a second before the bell tolls. Dizzy, lost, black and blue I prevail. Will I fail again?