Self-Doubt

Are my words getting through?

And what is it that they mean to you?

I pen my lines sporadic at times.

Blank verse or structured rhymes.

Laying down the thoughts in my head,

Not knowing if they will ever be read.

I wish that the world can see,

The tortured poet inside of me.

Wanting to touch as many as I can,

Living in the moment without a plan.

Are my words getting through?

Is there reward for all that I do?

Writing year in and year out,

Pushing away my fears and self-doubt.

 Wanting the world to learn,

Writing until my fingers burn.

My eyes grow red and head gets sore,

Until I cannot even think any more.

The more I give the less I feel,

That my words and rhymes are real.

So I hide behind my manic mask,

Sit back and earnestly ask.

Are my words getting through?

And what is it that they mean to you?

 

02/07/2019

Reviews

[John the Baptist]

A nicely rhymed portrait of the tortured poetic spirit. In this age which seems to value poetry less than previous ones, it takes dedication to keep writing. Alas, there is no guarantee they'll be appreciated; the best course is to write them for the sheer joy of writing itself.