West, outside my window, it's one O' three.
The night is as dark as my scalding tea.
I have realized I don't write for anyone else or the admiration,
I only write for me.
The inspiration was oddly impulsive,
But every word I wrote became fiercely captive
Read off the paper it resounded in angst.
Affirmation; This was not my motive.
Fallacy? My reasoning could be misconstrued.
I allow too many thoughts to intrude.
When I write I tend to second guess.
It's this doubt I must elude.