Ghost Writer Poem by JJ Evendon

She struggles to finish her novel.
A task she carries weightier than a mountain.
It's as if its changed - her creation, her love of words-
to become an unapproachable animal,
ready to bite her hand should she get too close.
Now, afraid to approach the manuscript,
she imagines it as a vicious creature -
a creature she's invented in her book.
She tries to withdraw,
wants to withdraw,
but cannot, for it is her blood, sweat and tears.
Her readers expect nothing less than to be drawn in by every page.
In a state of trepidation, her vision fights to find its voice.
She feels constrained and longs to be somewhere, somewhere far away,
and wishes somehow, the story could write itself.
Outside the window, the daffodils have bloomed.
How wonderful they look she thinks.
A bright colour against her world of black and white.
She returns her gaze back to the typewriter
and stares pensively, unable to coagulate her sentences.
Her outpouring of words somehow different from those she typed.
Something is not right.
Is it her subconscious mind playing tricks or,
could it be just the quirkiness of the old typewriter?
She cannot think for the moment,
for neither the words or story seem to be hers.
It is as if someone else is hitting the keys -
writing simultaneously, writing differently -
on the same paper,
on the same machine.
She stops, letting her fingers rest lightly on the keyboard,
savouring the moment of silent creativity.
Closing her eyes she takes herself into her story,
carefully noting every last detail, for it must be perfect.
Her rational mind pictures all the eventful scenes of what is there -
and should be there.
She leans forward
only to see more words have appeared.
But whose?