An inner page
frayed but full to four edges with marginalised annotations leaving nothing unsaid over the bleeding watermark shouting its insistence that nothing is ever finished only paused pending further inspiration from yet unheard whispers from beyond the perimeters of this captured inner rage.

I have over a hundred
that fill me with an odd sort of dread
What if people were to read
my barely cohesive thoughts?
What an absolute nightmare that would be.

What on earth is the rhyme scheme?
Is there even one at all?
I gotta hand it to me
that was an odd sort of free verse poetry.

There are some that are just titled
and no words written beneath them.
What was I thinking with that topic?
Nothing, apparently.

Save it as a draft
and never go back

That's my motto.

Save it as a draft
and never go back.