Life is wrapped in my creation,
though I float on the snippets I might do
while I work though hesitation.

Filling voids left by inflation,
I conjure things new, bespoke, that ring true —
life is rapt in my creation.

But fixed to preserve my position,
life recedes to a gray and shattered hue
as I work through hesitation.

Light and form observe my suasion —
ever invoking the right things to do!
Life adapts to my creation.

A hard edge thus breaks elation;
time’s promises repeatedly fall through!
Wild, I suffer hesitation.

These beats, subject to ablation,
nonetheless array themselves in the queue;
life’s still wrapped in my creation
as I work through hesitation.

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This is me. The way I see it, as long as I keep coming back, I will at least be able to say I didn’t give up. I struggle with the idea of being a poet — how do you think like a poet? How do you express yourself poetically? Every line I write, I look at it so critically and the first thing I tend to ask myself is ‘does it look stupid?’ I try to stay away from rhyming too much because that makes the work that much harder, and can make it feel forced.

I’m concerned that I look like a fraud, a poet wannabe. But I don’t need assurances — I just need to get over it.

This piece was tough. I like my haiku, my tanka and shadorma. I did want to branch out and try other things though, and so I’ll stick with that mission. The mission drives me, and keeps me going.

Everything I want to make gets put in line. More important things — those are the studs in the walls of the house I’ve built. Work, bills, family, sleep, other forms of downtime . . .

But I’ll keep coming back.

Plastic tubes and pots and pans, the magic from my hand, the bits and pieces . . . it’s my Creation.