Each time I attempt to write a tale
A paralyzingly doubt comes over me
Are there more stories to tell
Why would anyone want to hear it from me
I lay awake at night
Thoughts chasing each other
Reviewing what I have written so far
All of them rubbish
not worth anybody’s time
There is one half written novel
Of two friends cruel to each other
In my mind I reviewed the first chapter
And cringed at the sentimentality
Soaking the first paragraph
The male protagonist’s characterization is so wrong
For a reticent man why did I make him squeeze
The heroine’s arm every so often?
And why did Abigail, the narrator of the story
Sounds like a walking Wikipedia
Every time she offers an information
About a place with historical significance?
What is even the point I was trying to make
With this coming of age story?
That even the smartest man will always
Pick a pretty face over an intelligent mind?
If I really think about it
That is not always true
Though not short of suitors
It can also be difficult for a pretty girl
To find a love that is true
Either I re write the whole damned thing
Or it is ending in the bin