I don't like my poetry

He sits at his desk, pen in hand,
Staring at the blank page in dismay.
His mind, a muddled mess, can't understand
How to make his words flow in any way.

He hates his poems, every single one,
The ideas he thinks mundane and trite.
He looks at them and feels they weigh a ton,
Their lack of rhyme and reason a painful blight.

He fears the judgment of the world outside
That they will criticize and sneer.
His poems rumble, he can't hide
The shame and doubt that he holds dear.

But still he writes, unable to resist
The siren song of words within his soul.
It's like a cancer that he can't desist,
A need that eats away, a constant toll.

He writes to keep the demons at bay,
To give his soul a space to breathe and grow.
It's the only way he knows to stay
Alive and find a way to let his words glow.

For all the hate and pain his poems bring,
He knows he can't stop writing, can't let go.
It's the only way he knows to sing,
And find some solace in the words that flow.