There is in me, a masterpiece, struggling within the words, within the thoughts, trying to surface, trying desperately, to come forth.
I have been working it since I was a child, I have misplaced it a few times, discarded it at others, and, have decided it did not have much worth.
These are the unconscious actions of a writer who over-analyzes their own work, who is self-critical of what they do,
It is often, without intention, they are simply so bent on perfection, that some notable works aren't allowed to come through...
I is maddening, frustrating, it is ludicrous, to say the least,
It is like a chef scraping a delectable, scrumptious feast:
Purpose or not, it happens to the best of those who create,
They feel that they know best, when something is or not worthy of being great;
And so, they write, paint, sculpt, design, or whatever they might do,
Without wasting time, as they are busy, until that masterpiece finally makes it through...