A Confession

Those sanctified structures of verse, plot and rhyme--why do I find them no help to me now? I want to produce something imagined not recollected. My inner voice becomes tongue-tied; it trembles searching for the words to guide me to inspiration. So at times everything I write with the threadbare lack of genius seems wearily; worn-out ; hackneyed often painfully paralyzed. A mésalliance I admit Still I strive to caress the light.