also from the summer
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[b]Doubt[/b]
Why is it that every time I write a
poem
the first draft,
the first reading.
Satisfies me? And then, just a few
moments later I write it again in my
mind and think it’s complete garbage.
[i]Trust your instinct[/i] they say,
But I dare not
destroy my creation and be left with
nothing.
I have to wait it out. Let it
breathe,
mature within me and get
old on paper.
Correction here;
addition there;
this has to go;
will this one stay?
Ah, this works just fine.
And then, the feeling is back:
breathe, mature, age.
How long do I wait?
I still don’t know, so I doubt now,
like I did then. I let
it live and age with her.
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