Fear for the Examination of One's Art

If painted by an unflattering brush

What concoction shall the subconscious construct?

  

I dream too many awful dreams

And fret each the words used in dejecting me

Index librorum prohibtorum, will my work be cast unto the forbidden

Or will redacted treatises compose themselves, only to be allotted the resemblance of being seen, by those whom my work’s intended for?

Index Expurgatorius.  If this redact does devour, my precious words, in their enlivened hour, why may I ask, are some loved and others dispatched, to where broken chapters wriggle so very slow?

Potteresque terms for sure,

Yet as with magic,

The fear is real

Invective natures I may assume

Vituperation certainly could become my friend in flame

As can vexation when brewed within

But,

To create a Jeremiad,

Before the eyes can even scroll

Seems premature, blinding

And a waste of thought and time,

Which serves no purpose, none at all.

 Yet, it does seem like a place,

Where too often poets tend to stroll