The Inner Critic Asks to Go

Not yet, she says.
Not now. 
Not that shade of green.
Never on a Sunday or after dark.
Not after you've just finished eating.

Can't you do anything right?

The A is too close to the "m" in your name.
Someone will see and know you're a fraud.
The letters jump around on the page when you read—
Why can't you lasso the words down into order and go faster?
Now write a paragraph about what you just read.
Try not to make anything up or you'll be locked out until supper.

If only you knew I was watching out for you
Every minute of every day.
I'm only trying to get you to say the right things the right way.
So we land somewhere safe for the night.
And if we don't look too closely,
Squint our eyes, turn the page sideways,
The report card will show all As. 

She is the don't, the won't, the can't.
The soup's-too-hot-to-sip, wound-up-so-tightly gal.
She jumps in the ring and puts her boxing gloves on
And says we'll go round and round
So you won't look a fool.

But she would like a different job now, please.
The Inner Critic is re-writing her resume
and asking to apply for something new to do.
To make fried eggs on Sunday morning and not clean all the pans before the first bite.
To wake up to the smell of coffee and the sound of fingers tinkering on a piano.

Could she become the Anything Goes Gal instead?
The rhythmic, sing-out-loud-for-all-to-hear gal?
Or the free-as-a-bird writer who weaves through detail,
scene, dialogue and paragraph breaks without any need to arrange
for an anxiety attack later that night?

Perhaps all of our Inner Critics don't need or want to be silenced.
Maybe they're the loudest because they are finally insisting on being set free.

Set me free.
Let me be. 
Let me give my talents to other things.

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