I pen my poetry in ink
Instead of lead
Because I tend to ovethink
Then begin to dread

Criticize my own writing
Before the critics get the chance
My anxiety fighting
Telling me to erase with every glance

My work isn't good enough
Erase write repeat
Poems are just not up to *****
I should accept my defeat

So now I use ink
There is no going back
Nothing to rethink
No need to self attack

My words freely flow
From pen to page
Allowing myself to heal and grow
Displaying my poems on main stage

Your mood changes
Like the second hand on a clock
My hour hand keeps moving
But I just can't keep up

how to have a good
haiku: make sure you do not
run out of sylla-


****.

February's gaze wanders ahead to
the last week of April, engraved with the
scent of lavender soap and sun-dried earth.
But, as always, these faded days
can only take him so far.
Maybe next spring.