Artistic Insecurity

An editor of Twig, I was The least accomplished one. I hadn’t taken art for years Like most of them had done. The “Head-itor” took care of most Responsibilities. She gave us fifty pages each. Back then, I was at ease. The moment that I started spreads, I found myself quite stuck. I looked through older yearbooks, but I wasn’t quite in luck. Some photos looked a bit washed out, And fonts were not much better. With ruthless eyes, I scrutinized Each page down to the letter. “Oh crap!” I said, forgetting that I’d come for inspiration. I feared my spreads would be assessed With equal condemnation. I searched non-stop for perfect fonts, Spent hours on grayscaling, I hadn’t finished half my work, But deadlines were approaching. “That’s it!” I said, “That’s quite enough, You’re being such a child. Creative insecurity Made lateness yours go wild .” And thus I pledged to cast away My green mentality. I forced myself to believe once more. In my ability. This incident made me become A Carol two-point-oh Who’s confident in all she does And lollygags no more.