I post a work and then I cringe,
think, "Will they write critiques that singe"?
or will they praise with tender strokes-
or quench the flame with wetted pokes?

But I must write, I'm driven, man,
a made up muse, some clever plan,
yet, I just sit here, pen in hand,
discarded like an old hat stand.

A writer paints with coloured word,
creating scenes not weird, absurd,
a landscape bright, a deep, deep thought,
a memory sparked, or beauty brought.

If I don't write, they can't touch me,
won't criticize, they'll let me be,
but thrills I seek, how can they know?
I'm just a fool, it's only show.