Risk a verse
How many times have I sat down to write
When I worry over whether I might
Not touch base with my fickle muse
Without whose inspiration I will lose
Whatever poetic conceits come to mind
At which point I would feel totally resigned
To leaving my pages unscribbled and blank
As I felt my energy ebb and my spirit sank
Then did faint stirrings tickle my brain
As I hoped I could begin again
To venture to concoct my story
Every new poem being a step towards glory
Though doubts about my efforts remain
How long can budding poets ever be sane?
The torture of trying to find the right word
Forever renders such a struggle totally absurd
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