Why is this? Where does all this doubt creep in?
I want to write for the sheer joy in it
Don’t want to write deep for the hurt it brings in me
The g-police are sure to get me
I compare and then I’m mad at me
Other people don’t see what I see
Other people don’t think like I think
Their poems are beautiful,
Deep, and full of visual
They inspire and they tire me
I have to keep on telling me
I do this for the joy it brings
That’s why I do anything
For the joy it brings
I’m deaf to my critics now
I don’t write for them any how.
I do this for the joy it brings.
That’s why I do any thing.