The Prize Writer

 

His doctor called it syndrome

Some sort of self-inflicted slur

That he should feel the words he wrote

Might not with other minds concur

Sweat spot note pads edgy curled

Scrubbed out lines that wouldn’t gel

Ignoring obvious catchy phrases

Like walking planks to pirate’s hell

Too loud that shout of doubt would scream

You need more passages with legs

Holding tight a reader ‘s bated breath

With eyes like chapel hat pegs

He let the plot build slowly sure

Like in a detail grinding blender

Until at last a masterpiece brought forth
Released him from the word 'Pretender'

based on: 

Are You Really an Author? How to Kill Imposter Syndrome by guest @SmartAuthors By Rachel Thompson | Blog