Eternally Writing in Fear

There are some qualities I will never bestow
To create fictitious pieces, historically known
Nor rhyme, with such passion, as Edgar Allen Poe
This is one poet, talent with condone.

Talent that dies like the blossoming flowers
The sweet juicy fruit will become sour
Like freshly baked dough will cool in hours
No man can savor time, like I have no power.

My powers are helpless to conquer my dream
Should I quench my fear? Sorrow be near
Should I shield out the world I've seen?
And kill everything I've held so dear.

I have already ended love- a chapter less novel
My obsessions have coated, with depression
I dangled my life, it did not fly, but fell
Because metaphoric rhyme will always be my passion.

Alas I am weak with desire
I cannot kill the pain I know I will grow
I would never extinguish my happiness fire
Can we outlive time? I will never know.

I have my qualms like I have my hopes
I hold my pain in my words, like my cheer
I will never be like Emily D, or Poe
But at least, I can hang my lurking fear.

*Just thought I'd give some background info to this poem: I have no idea where it came from. I just started writing it in my head. I guess it just means that we all have doubts that our poetry will be meaningless to everyone, except, in the end, at least it's true to ourselves.*