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Red ink runs rampant over my precious piece.
I let loose my heart with fine words and phrases,
Thought through every dash and semicolon;
Wrote short sentences and long,
Carefully concerned about rhythm and flow,
Yet here it sits,
Bleeding on my desk,
And I am broken.
Oh, what power a reviewer’s pen holds!
A brutal weapon, it wounds a hopeful heart.
A magic wand, it buoys the eager ego
And makes a party for the exulting soul.
We are our writing.
To write a line and expose it to the world
Is a fearsome and courageous thing.
To admit, “I wrote a poem”,
Or “I want to write a book”
Makes us fragile in a frightful way.
To offer it up for review is terrifying.
And we hold our breath
Until the verdict comes.
Am I worthy or am I not?
Is my gift real or only desired?
Do I move forward, or kill the dream?
The reviewer holds the key,
Not just to future work,
But to my very self.
Yet I must write, to be myself.
God gives a gift for kingdom use.
I cannot bow to damaged pride
And leave it on that pile of broken dreams.
So use your weapon or use your wand.
Be honest and be kind.
My God will heal the wounds
When he sees fit
And use the gift he gave
as he had planned.
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