TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE

When writing seems so all up-hill,
And Talent’s doubt brings dark to dawn
Those thoughts of “quit” then plague my will.

Those times I ponder “why keep on?”

As hours turn to days and days to weeks,
And I grow old with lips tight-drawn.

So tell me what the poet seeks.

Be it fame?  For wealth’s not there.
Or tis the need to write that speaks?

If I’d but lay this pencil where

I’d never hear it beckon me,
Would the world perchance to care?

If I ignore the pencil’s call,.

I’d be less than true; that’s all.

 

                        --Monty Wheeler