This Fear of Mine
Weakly shaking
Heart is racing
Pen in hand
Muscles aching
"Time is up"
She said to us
"Pass your papers
To the front."
Fear is rising
Ever growing
Shadows pass
She is waiting
Hinding in
Unfinished work
Tensions rise
As minutes fly
All others calm
As I panic again
Thinking that
It's not good enough
Strongly growing
This nauseous feeling
Of it never being
Good enough
"My writing's weak"
"This is too tough"
I slowly mutter
To myself
Could I ever
get much better?
I really doubt
I ever will
I like what you did with this workshop activity, and the short, clipped meter of your poem fits the shallow breathing of panic. Nice! [As an aside, I think most writers--good, bad and mediocre] feel the work is never good enough; never finished. This is MUCH to be preferred to the casual writer who figures turning something of the right length in is good enough.]
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