I don't often look back over my work but for once I did just this morning. A little reflection isn't necessarily a bad thing provided that your mindset isn't self-criticism.
When does the psyche know that it’s right
to reveal the inner notepad,
to the few acquaintances who might
destroy pages and make us so sad?
Are there those who you’ll never show
the simplest, first scribings,
who may as well just get up and go
to alleviate the stress of sightings?
Then on the other hand there are some
to whom you’d willingly explain every page,
in an effort to persuade them to come
and read you until of great age.
And if through fear your chance is missed
a blank page you make in pain,
are there other opportunities that exist
to start you writing again?
At what stage is life’s ink droughty
forbidding further attractive notes?
You attain a hidden shelf in the library
surrounded by arid tomes and dusty motes?
© David L Atkinson February 2015