Writing problems, poem (184/365)

I wrote all this great stuff
But it went in trash
Alas, alas, alas
The critic up here
Echoes strictly
About the past
Alas, alas, alas,
My brain
Charges cheaper rent
For ideas that
Reek of doubt
Slowly evicting
The real artist out
Alas, alas, alas
No
– I will no longer
Appeal to the masses
At some point
Firsts draft become butterflies
It looks like death but not
Because the stuff
In the trash
Wasn’t that bad
Actually a few more passes
And might be fantastic