Poets...

As a creator, I worried.
Was I good?
What were my strengths?
What were my weaknesses?
How was I seen?
To my dismay,
I was ignored.
"That's a nice phrase."
"I like this poem."
But nothing about me.
I went on for years,
Insecure and arrogant,
My ideal of an artist.
The desire faded,
The poems dwindled,
Only the image remained.
Then, during my unending,
Internal dialogue over my worth,
A new voice appeared.
"Fool!" It shouted,
"You have lost yourself,"
"Through your search for yourself."
"You are not the creator,"
"That is God's job."
"You are only a conduit."
"The poem's the thing."
That's all,
The poem's the thing.

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