The Plight of a Poet

Whenever I delve backwards into my own works,
I can’t help but feel the earliest pieces were my best.

Before I was trying to be a poet, I just was one.

The words poured out past my fingers with ease,
Capturing the feelings that simply had to be captured.

Can I hold back my desire for recognition?

Can I hold it back long enough for the essence of the Past Poet
To consume me once again, placing me in the perfect spot to be recognized?

(I am mocking myself, if you cannot tell.)

What is the purpose of prose, if not to share it?
Why are my best works the ones I wrote when I thought no one would ever hear them?

The ping-pong of thoughts through my mind refuses to yield.

Instead, the Poor Poet is trapped inside herself,
Consumed with the troubled-ness that is being a fantastic artist and knowing it.

(Ah, and she’s humble, too.)