My Poetry
I am going to write whatever I want.

A way to express oneself,
dampened by the opinioned,
but still, they're right all the same,
The quality improves,
but the emotion...
As I move my pen,
I stop in motion,
No longer do I smile,
I frown at my creation,
When did this way of expression,
becomes so gruelling,
buffeting me with same feelings,
My pen was relieving.

I want to stop judging my own work,
I want to stop thinking of a good way to rhyme,
I wish in time,
I was told,
That it was fine,
To write and not strike gold,
That your heart's song does not need a grade,
That it's alright,
Let it bloom like an emotion's spade.

But that is not reality,
A critic's not a tragedy,
What really is sickly,
Is the opinions of my own,
If I only write to express,
Why when denounced do I feel to disown,
My work, Again it trails back to this,
The voice in my head,
Its hiss and hiss,
She talks and talks scarily in my tone,
Hissing the dirty truth that is me alone,
The bad is not the critic but the me who takes it harshly,
When will I conceive,
That is it me who should hush,
Not the critic being generous.