The Poet's Quandary

Words do not come to me
And neither can I pull them from a hat
like rabbits

Praise me not
for I cannot write
Exalt me not
for no sublime truth can I convey
nor images can I weave

What see you in this ridiculous babble of mine?
certainly nothing worth speaking of,
certainly not poetry?

I'm merely treading on the greatness of legends
but so, too, were they—
before we called them great