And Here I Am, Without a Woodstove

I don't always feel this way, but for the most part, I do.

In younger years, I took the prize
For self-consolatory lies:
I told myself that one who tries
Will grow and learn.

But editors (an honest crew)
Have kicked away the work I do
And snarled at failings that imbrue
My cracked, blank urn.

These latter years reveal the dead
And toxic acres of my head
To be a mapless void, blood-red,
Where doubts return

To poison everything I write
With clear perspective. In this light,
My manuscripts I must indict,
And they should burn.