These hands have grown old,
Having done nothing worthwhile,
But write loveless poetry.
My eyes grow weary,
Having shed so many tears,
You’re hardly worth the pity.
My heart is heavy,
Having borne so many hurts,
It’s now a knot of old scars.
Then rejoice, old friends,
Winter is a time for rest,
A brief relief from the pain.
Discarded Recollections 
I can identify with that first stanza
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I think that’s one of the struggles of a poet-writer – the lack of physicality in our product sometimes makes us feel like fog-makers or mist-weavers. There but for a moment until a strong breeze or hot day dissolves all our work away.
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