A*ll the five hundred drafts and counting
I am so bad at finishing
Each line lyric rhyme
Hoping for a masterpiece
Or a mirror to my mind
Nothing is certain till it ends
And it twists all the thought.
A surprise for few lines
An emotion to hide
Many people to confide
Some memories to write
A few to ignite
Each word to choose
and another to bind.
Inert satisfaction
a final completion
First to last transition
Inking blues
And curves in precision
An unknown outcome
Likesome to troublesome
to be posted on a wall*.