How do I really feel about my writing?
Truth be told, I just don’t know
Never any picture to stretch the imagination, a tragedy in my own oh so humble opinion
You may one day manage to write what will always be seen as terribly grandiose but it ain’t ever going to be a film
This was my own decision and I cannot but feel the outright need to accept the loneliness that runs right through it
All of these goddamn if-only’s
‘Til acknowledgement and fame opt upon lending me their every ear
Steering me a little nearer to what it is I might really want
Font and far, far more
This door is almost definitely closing
All too often caught between a rock and a hard place – abhor
Something a little more soft would be nice
Perhaps then, and only then, will I finally get to see all that is out there
Seems I do indeed need the scripture to be relatively grandiose
Inside of my page – Big
Adoration atop adulation – Small
Soon as that happens I become the most wonderfully alarmed mouse in the world
Back inside the house
An entirely different stance, different pose
An uncertain-as-they-may-ever-possibly-be poet

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