There really isn’t any looking back.
The past is just a trap, an empty maw.
It doesn’t matter what has gone before.
The poem I had written yesterday?
I either think I’m Ozymandias
King of Kings, or that the work I’ve done
Is better than I’ll ever do again,
Or that it’s crap and everything is crap.
Flip forward to an empty page and write!
A celebration (Everyone was there!)
A mountain canyon and a waterfall
I hadn’t known existed. Hummingbirds.
The subject of my newest print. Despair!
It doesn’t matter if I fill the page
With garbage, nonsense, or the brilliant thoughts
Of genius. All that matters is I’ve filled
The page, and I’m not stuck in yesterday.