There’s a judge who sits on my shoulder
Gavel raised, ready to whack-a-mole, lay ’em out colder
As I try to give voice to these feelings
Or distil my understanding, smashing out through glass ceilings
Or before, during and after every encounter
With another human being this judge is my doubter
I try to give pen to all these ideas that flow
Businesses, adverts, stories, climate solutions ready to go
But the judge comes down hard
He’s the essence of every teacher’s disparaging report card
Every time a friend scoffed at my dreams
Or people convinced me that the world is not what it seems
Because it seems impossible.
How in the name of statistics is this symphone compossible
From primordial ooze
Proteins, microbes, DNA, evolution win or loose,
All form conscious life
That can imagine, dream, love, full of vigour and strife
And this judge tells me: ‘No,
Not real enough, not ready yet, gotta grow
Put down your pen son,
Look how many writers are out there, you’re just one
You’ll never put in the effort
To get beyond average, you’ll just get hurt
When the real critics slam this’.
But here’s the only judge that can cause me to miss.
There’s a judge who sits on my shoulder
And every time he’s overruled I grow bolder
Every time a friend says ‘Yes’
I see him shrink, feel the weight of that gavel growing less
He still slams down that hammer
But the stronger ideas survive and double their clamour
And I’ve the courage to write them down
Overthrow the ego king and smash his useless crown
Cause it’s my head
And I want it bare, unfettered to feel the starlight instead
Of bound by fear of failure
The only way to fail is to not try, don’t let fear derail you.