The Life of a Poet

Here I sit, full of fright, full of might... So I write. I sit and I write, I write and I sit. and I won't quit... Until the day is done. Is what I write right? and what is right wrong? Or even written in the write way? How should I know, i'm just a poet. A poet writing the words that flow from the fountain. Fountain of knowledge, fountain of truth, fountain... pen? When? when will it end?... While it is sending me into the abyss. Never to return... One with words. None with birds. For you see, though I try, and try, and try... I can not fly, and I sit here and wonder. Wonder why I was not with wings; when the world was written in water. and... ink?