reading through my poems
I want to throw away all but a dozen
out of the thousands I’ve written
and maybe
that’s the way art is:
a process of creation
and then
destruction,
over and
over and
over
until the making
outweighs the taking
and my vision
can be
achieved.

or maybe
I just got lucky
those dozen or so times
and the other thousand or so
is really what I’m capable of
and I should probably
realize what that means
about
me.

or maybe
I’m just looking
for excuses to quit
because I’m so close
to being as good
as I dreamed
but now
the true sacrifices
must begin.