Uncertainties
I am terrified that
All this is mere doggerel
Fit only for derision and scorn
I live in fear that what I write
Is insipid and vapid,
Art without merit
Fit only for greeting cards
Growth without direction
Guilt gnaws at my certainties
It weakens my will.
And questions my beliefs.
I am subject to passions
I do not control
And do not understand
Every line that I write
Bears grave consequences
I did not intend
Why do I question
Every motive for my work?
Is this blind obsession not enough
That I feel forced to give substance
To everything I see?
This is extreme hubris
In need of order and discipline
Five seven and five
A forced economy of words
And a precision of meaning
Put that genie back in it’s lamp
Where it rightly belongs
