I’m feeling as if I’m writing no longer for myself,
but for the absent critique of those I admire
I’m convinced I’ll never produce a work
that will gain the recognition I aspire

My passion is derived from what I don’t possess
Short tales of love and dignity
My words fall short of second-best
It seems I’ll never grasp this feat

My creative drive sputters ink,
but dies short of my expectations
That distorted voice of self-pity
reminds me of my own limitations

I fail to progress in this line of art
and doubt all of my capabilities
I fear the day when my spark dies
and writing is no longer a proclivity