'On the art of writing'

A stream of consciousness flows from my pen
Across the paper’s blank, unyielding stare -
Some flights of fancy take me who-knows-where?
It’s not a question now of ‘If’, but ‘When’
The spirit soars beyond its normal ken,
With all those secret hopes and fears laid bare.
I journey now, above all earthly care –
Composed, serene, within my scribing den.
But then, the faintest sliver of dread doubt
Begins insistent whispering in my ear,
And rises to a raging, throaty, shout
From all those bards and poets down the years,
Who care not if I bend or break their rules:
“Enough! Just write, you poor deluded fool!”