Trust Yourself Poem by William Baez

I just can't seem to do it, the words won't come to me
like they used to.
I used to open them up, in a letter, nice and fancy, with a gold stamp. Always signed 'from your creativity, all the best'.
And I'd just humbly write down whatever creativity had in mind for me today.
But today is different and I don't want to reveal why.
I know why, why it's different.
Why I didn't get a letter, with the fancy gold stamp.
I hate to admit, but it's because I threw away the previous letter.
I sort of liked what it had to say, but when I asked my friend what he thought of it, he smiled and moved on.
I looked back at the letter.
I smiled at it and moved on to more pressing matters.
I figured that my friend was right.
What creativity had in mind was quaint but all the more amusing.
Like the foolish ramblings of a pure, innocent child, you smile and move on.
In addition, I was doubtful of creativity.
I mean he had wild ideas written in his letters.
And whenever they did come, most of the time they were so importune.
Like the middle of the night, at work, at school, I'd swear he'd wait for these moments to come.
But, alas, now I hurt his sensitive feelings.
They'll be no letters coming for awhile.
But ironically I haven't seen much of my friend either.
And while both of them are gone for the moment, I'm left alone with my bland gray thoughts.