I danced a dark waltz
with my insecurities.
Rises and falls swept
me along in a romantic
attempt to seduce
my spirit to succumb
to doubt and lay
down my pen.
Hesitation held me
close whispering
In my ear,
“you are just not
good enough.
Leave poems
to those who can write.”
Swaying, counting
the reasons I should
give up, I broke
doubt’s hold and
ended the dance.
There will always
be better poets.
I bow to their talent,
but poetry is my heart
written for others to read.
What does it matter
the size of my audience.
Comments