One day the poem is good, the story sound.
The next day, Hmmm . . .
One day it’s, Yeah, well.
The next day, That’s bad.
One day it’s, Meh.
The next day it’s, Oh My.
Then Oh well.
Followed by OMG.
Yikes the day after.
Why me? takes a turn.
On its heels, Kill me now.
Why do I torture myself like this? right behind.
Definitely expect, I should quit writing.
And inevitably, Why didn’t I quit writing?
But writers beat on, little boats pushing hard against
the mysterious tide that runs through all their writing days.