Weary
you are my
dearest poet
following the
rules of form
but you’re my
textual critic
writing with
a pen that is
leaden heavy
upon pages of
weightly iron
with equally
burdened heart.
Pernicious id,
victim of your
own slander -
cuts open veins
with a word
degrades belief
in thine self.
Confidence,
when it sinks,
has a maelstrom
around it as
you fall from
the cliff into
a poet’s abyss.
Poetry chooses
us, and it has
no mercy either.
Did not Shelley
and Byron feel
such torment?
Did their pens
not jerk with
uncertainty?
A lack of one
poet would be
one too many
for none can
fill your gap.
Until your muse
kindly returns,
I grab thee by
the scruff of
thy neck as
I gently hold
your hand,
for your talent
always speaks
for itself,
whatever your
doubts may be.
Thy confidence
inconsolably
shaken and
stirred, but
now poet,
go write
thy next
word.
© Roxi St. Clair
