Demiballade

As I write the poems that reflect the thoughts I grow
The influence of others has seemed natural to me
And I cannot help but wonder what that influence should be
Should I write the sort of poems that I've grown to love and know
Or despair of writing anything like that? I once could show
A forward sense of confidence within my poetry
And a knowledge of the future which I faced confidently
With a calm determination that the little seeds I'd sow
Would grow up to be enduring. But alas, I see them now
As the cripples of the litter, which have fallen in the dust
And are culled by every farmer, as tradition says he must
To encourage all the others; now I ask you, is it just
That my poems, from the influence they suckled like a sow,
Should be murdered just this easily, like dust before the plough?