I cut my hand on the paper

  In a hurry to complete it.

  Will you see my work,

  Or should I just delete it?

  With eyes too far

  And ears too close,

  Should I throw it away

  Along with my prose?

  To write is to think—

  So I've been told.

  I must complete the craft

  Before I get too old.

  Doubt is my enemy.

  I wonder if I have been defeated.

  I'm giving up now—

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  Let the ghosts receive it.

  Oh, but I'm back

  With renewed vigor.

  I'll write and write and write

  Until my fingers shrivel.

  It's funny, you see—this cruel passion,

  Beating me down, nasty contraction.

  Chasing a dream, or is it smoke and mirrors?

  I'll start over again, make the picture clearer.

  You've noticed a pattern, isn't that right?

  Go ahead, strike with all your might.

  Maybe I'll listen, maybe I won't—

  The birds are chirping the same old song.

  I've strayed away from the path.

  Is it the wrath of my own mind I fear?

  Forget the doubt, forget the pain—

  Move on with nerves of steel, existent.

  I cut my hand on the paper

  In a hurry to complete it.

  Will you see my work,

  Or should I just delete it?