Split Personality

The Man:
I define myself as a mere bolt — with stripped threads.
Useless. Not fit for a dowel, let alone (God forbid) a flute… or a violin.
Worthless. Dust. A leftover shard.

The Creator:
My brilliance suffocates me, instead of lifting me up.
I’m cool, maybe even good…
But — “That’s NOT enough!”
I hear it from all directions.
Accusation — cold, alien, relentless — won’t let me sleep.

I babble in my dreams.
I become a somnambulist.
I wander through the dark, blind.
And my talent?
It can’t help me.
It flays itself open into rags — raw, torn, helpless.
I become a clown.
I look into the mirror…
…And I burst out laughing, hysterically.