where are my feelings?

Echolocating into my body
with poetry. Where are you? At the back of my throat:
a young artist I've mentored.
Lew puts life out into the world marvelously, but he's frustrated.
I have the perfect vantage point. I speak to him six times a year,
but he's forced to live with himself every day.
No matter. He's doing great. I'm so proud. I can remember
when I didn't think he was a master, and he wasn't.
But his will turned his passion over and over again like dough,
and I told him to keep spinning, even though I genuinely
wasn't sure where he would end up. I can't believe I did that.
How reckless. I guess I believed in believing in someone.
Now he is a wonderful pizza. Saucy and sliced. 
He's hitting the back of my throat, I can feel
how far he's come, how much he's worked,
and I feel guilty for not being totally sure of him,
you know, back when I told him to go for it. 
But anybody who wants to be an artist, you gotta say go for it. 
Because at that point they already are. You gotta get out of their way
and let them crash that car wherever it's heading. 
Otherwise you set them up for a lot more damage.
This I believe. I live like this. Can you believe it?
Despite the danger, or because of it.