I've got a head full of ideas
but my page sits empty,
I can't seem to shake any of them free.
Is this writer's block,
or has self-doubt finally crept up?
Is it imposter syndrome looming large?
Like a man in an alley after dark
that you know you don’t want to cross,
so, you take another path
that leads you away, so far.
I've got a head full of noise,
but what if that is all it is,
just noise with no sense of rhythm,
where no rhymes are hidden,
no meaning to dig from deep within?
What if it's terrible? What if I fail?
Will I be laughed from the poets table?
Will I become a fable spoken of
long after the final nail hits
the lid of my coffin?
I've got some ideas brewing,
like a cup of tea left to stew,
but I've let it sit too long, now
it's bitter and cold, the rhymes
are stale and old, the truth
is not bold it’s just
a moment of self-awareness
masked as a message of hope.
So, I let those thoughts drift.
But what if,
what if this is it?
What if my pen sits completely still?
What if I never lift it again?
Will my worth be marked down
as just a poet who lost his muse,
Or will my worth be seen for the love
I’ve given to the world I view?
I've got a head full of ideas
but my page sits...
Wait...
What's all this...
I appear to have
written a poem.
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