When describing a sunset,
The term “red” comes to mind.
But this term alone
Doesn’t capture the sky,
It doesn’t narrow down the shade
Or the vastness,
So I pick familiar words
To bring the reader in close:
Crimson, vermillion, cherry, or
Expansive, encompassing, all-embracing.
We continue expanding, until
I’ve got a rouge, ruby sky
Blended with amber and straw hues
The clouds drift by
Like blades of golden grass with the wind
The piercing sun shines light
On everything we see
And the dark shadows grow longer, preparing for the night.
We’ve got our scene, but here’s my issue:
Do your sunsets have clouds?
Did I just limit your imagination with my imagination?
Or did I just bring something to the forefront
That you hadn’t even noticed?
My imagination is my daemon
Because it is my creative best friend
And my restrictive worst enemy
And it does drive me mad.
Upon completion of most writings,
Self-doubt sets in as a form of self-critique
And I wonder if the words I’ve chosen
Could be any cleaner,
Could alliterate or punctuate better,
Can call forward the right images,
The right feelings,
At appropriate times.
And I notice all the possible changes
I could have made…
But the anxiety passes,
And I know my initial thoughts
Are usually what I meant to say
And they hold true to myself.
So I hold back and wait
Until this self-critical worst enemy
Becomes a self-satisfying best friend.