And so I reach the end,
But, of course, doubt finally slips in.
Is it really good enough?
I try to think back on poetry
I've read throughout the year.
Is this actually acceptable?
My conscience wants to make itself heard:

“Yes, you put the effort in.
Yes, it is good work.
But you are capable of bigger,
Better, more impressive things.
Even this, with more planning,
Could have been a true work of art.
You are lucky to have a gift of quick thinking.
But remember: all good things must come to an end!”

I pause to think again.
Why must my conscience always be right?


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