Day Two: Struggles

Doubt

I have written two other poems tonight,

but can’t seem to be at peace with them.

They say what I think I want to say,

but too bluntly, not hidden between

branches of metaphor and the leaves

of alliteration. Inside the choice of words

and the painting of lines, in the sculpture of

structure the boundary of form, in the music of meter

and the lyric of rhyme lurk the potential for more meaning

than it seems I have the skill to place tonight.

Instead I cheaply turn to confessional and plead

for the patience to carry on. I heard a poet

say, “If I never write another poem, then I can accept that.”

I’m afraid I can’t. Or, put a better way, I’m afraid.

I can’t.