Nowadays,
I seem to ask myself that a lot.
"Is this poem the best I've got?"
"How good does it sound?"
"Is it terribly profound?"

Perhaps I'm just losing my edge,
Maybe I should pack up
And go to bed.

Or maybe I should stop caring
And start daring,
Lest it be me who's head
ends up dead.
Attached to a body
with no poetic stead.