spite

I've found myself worrying about whether the last one I wrote is any better than the one I'm writing now or if the next one will be better than the one before last or if his more aptly expresses hers more vividly pondered and in the end none of it matters I will write in spite and cherish what I've conjured because it's all magic some pretty words which speak the truth I'm too scared to willfully speak until they're staring back at me etched there by some stranger I become reacquainted with every day