Attempts At Poetry

I make attempts at poetry. But I'm not what you would call prolific. I struggle with completing each attempt .... with words and lines, do they make sense? Is it finished yet? Do I have more to say? Did I say too much? Is it crap? If I try to do too much at once, I begin thinking that it's all self absorbed shit. Or that I'm just repeating myself. I worry that my vocabulary is too limited. I worry that my voice, my thoughts, wouldn't stand up well compared to those of a 8th grader. I wonder if my words are a boatload of gibberish? If they hint at insanity or a cluttered mind ..... or just really bad, or at the best, mediocre combinations of words? But I go on. Once in a great while I think that three or four of my words used together are brilliant and that I don't care what anyone else thinks. I don't think that lines have to rhyme. (Mine rarely do.) They only have to pour out of a conciousness. I remind myself that it only has to make sense to me. I eventually decide that an attempt is finished ..... though I've been known to change a word or two a year later. Or add a couple lines. I've written about people who have no idea that they were the subject. It's most often someone that I know or had some sort of encounter with but could be a stranger or even a work of fiction. I want to share with others but I'm afraid to share with others. I occasionally think: "What if I'm one of those poets whose body of work gets discovered fifty years after I die? What if they say I was great ..... a brooding, sensitive genius?" (I highly doubt that last question but just what if .......) What if they laugh and say that I sucked? I'd probably roll over in my grave.