• Lines created,
    Lines wasted.
    Thrown into the trash
    Of a thousnd self-made mistakes.

    Written papers with un-needed stanzas,
    Lines that dont match,
    Words that dont work.

    When we think its done and made,
    Looking over, revising,
    A dire mistake is found yet again,
    Or it doesnt capture our own minds,
    And it all needs to be redone.

    THIS is who we are,
    Fated to never have a finished piece by mind.

    We never asked for this curse,
    The poets curse.