You think
Too Much –
The comments fly,
sting,
punch,
bite.
As if you are always
Worse than you are –
You are Fine –
Fine?
What defines Fine?
Average, the usual –
The arrow’s slow trek
around the clock,
unblinking, relentless.
Endless.
Too Much?
The water is rising
just over the rim,
peeking at me,
daring me
to spill over.

This poem is still a work in progress.... I need some thoughts... Is there anything I should reword or change?

A Visitor in the Morning Fog
Written by Adam M. Snow

Oh what a stage this morning break
Waking to a smoke-like sight
So thick it covers the dawn opaque
The freshly gold now blight
My heart is weak, I feel it ache
Upon this morning sight
Unlike the sun my heart don't hide
Nor in the fog it dwell
Even though and with my pride
This cruel heart I knew so well
Left me alone to stride
In this smokey hell
(more is coming soon)

The structural spine
of every mesmerizing art,
Is to ***** what they say
and follow your heart!!

Perpetually perplexed
Painted poignant
Pictures praising
Potent preachers

The brush is rough and
sore from years of labour
even time has aged but the
paint remains favoured

Piously positioned
Proudly portrayed
Poets patiently
Perfecting parody

stumble over the rhythm you create
as if it wasn't yours.
trip over the syllables in haste
as you attempt to overtake them
before they run out of control.
this is not poetry;
this is just plain crassness.
you're a verbal klutz,
and it hurts our sensibilities.
you can't hear what you're saying,
you are driving blind
in the blizzard of words
and you have the audacity to think
you'll get out of this unscathed;
somehow revered
because of your valiant effort
and mediocre product.
a bad combination,
and you're bound to be
called out on it, for sure.
luck won't cut it.
you have to know what you're doing
and you have to be good at it.
so if you have nothing to say
that you'll be saying right—
nothing that will squeeze flesh
through clothes or break skin and teeth
or kick and scream—basically,
don't
even
try.

Where there is despair
I will flood it with hope
Where there is insecurity
I will drive in a firm stake
Where there is anxiety
I will listen
Where there is criticism
I will reflect and advance
Where there is sadness
I will quietly encourage
Where there is thirst
I will bring water
Worry, fear, anxiety, doubt, insecurity
You are words
You are feelings
But you are not the champions
Strength, compassion, kindness, friendship, wisdom
You are my weapons and I have to sharpen them
Daily

I cannot get anything down.
I squeeze and suffocate,
choke the words out,
waterboarded with books,
until there is some water in this ******* drought.
Blame it for the lack of ingenuity,
for the life-long ambiguity,
how I cannot get my message out,
no matter how much I scream and shout.
The more I write the brighter I burn,
but like a fire I go out,
forgetting everything that I learn,
lost in the smoldering embers of doubt.

One more **** fool woman,
One more reason why
One more broken useless man needs
One more glass of rye;

No more **** fool women,
No more reasons why;
No more “Plenty grains of sand”,
No more *“No more **** rye!”

The worst type of critic
Is the critic with in me.
I always judge my work
Even if it's written perfectly.

Just like other critics,
I cannot silence this one.
But it takes a toll on my work,
It takes out all the major fun.

I love to write,
I love to share my ideas.
But I think all my work is crud
Even if it's beloved by my peers.

This makes the delete button
Oh so popular.
The inner criticism is choking me
He's got his hands against my jugular.

But I love what I do,
And I'll fight to the death,
Even if my work does ****,
At least I tried my best.

I have to remember,
The best is what matters,
Practice makes perfect
I just have to continue climbing that ladder.

It'll be a tremendous feeling,
When I reach the top,
Because I'll know no critics
Even myself,
Made me stop what I love doing.

Writing.