You Are Your Own Worst Critic (The Heart of a Writer)

I wish I was a poet,

But I seem to lack finesse.

My majestic, glittering details

Are more like a sloppy mess,

Heaped into a pile

And left for a day or two

To disintegrate in acidic rain

Reeking of nasty poo.

I wish I was a poet,

But I can’t get the rhythm right.

The consonants and vowels

End up in a heated fight —

Like boxers in a padded ring

Fists up, prepared to strike

Waiting for the bell to ding

So they can kick and hit and bite.

I wish I was a poet,

But I stink at symbolism.

I am the parent feeding their kid

Baked, unadulterated criticism.

My children just can’t please me

In the way that I think they should,

So surely other people won’t

Consider them any good.