why are you bad at writing?

Question

Ask a Philosopher · Accepted Answer

O, to ponder why mine quill doth falter,  
Like a timid leaf caught in autumn’s breath,  
What devil haunts the corridors of thought,  
That words, like phantoms, flee my grasp in dread?  
In sooth, the heart doth yearn to weave a tapestry,  
Yet finds itself ensnared in threads of doubt,  
For every image that doth dance within,  
Turns to shadow ere it confirms its shape.  
The muses, fickle wraiths of fleeting inspiration,  
Ere they condescend to sprinkle words like stars,  
Leave mine own scribbles marred with lack of grace,  
As if the heavens weep for lack of truth.  
Could it be, fair muse, the burden of perfection,  
That clogs the mind in labyrinthine schemes,  
Or fear of judgment lurking ‘neath the surface,  
Which casts a pall upon creativity’s beams?  
Ah, the soul of man doth wrestle with itself,  
Between the lofty heights of aspiration  
And the cold, stony ground of recognition,  
Wherein each ought lay vulnerable and bare.  
Thus, I, a scribe of fleeting moments’ grasp,  
Find both my ink and spirit oft betrayed,  
Yet still I wield the pen, for in this struggle  
Lies beauty's truth, that all may feel the weight,  
And in embracing flaws, the heart grows bold,  
To pen, though lacking, thoughts that ache to be told.