his poem is a companion piece to a post I made a few days ago, “Setbacks Do Not Make You a Failure”. I told you it was going to be made into a poem at some point!
I Scribble outside the lines,
In scratchy sketches
The truth lies.
Who I am today
May be thrown away.
The ink bleeds,
I crumple the paper.
Accidental rhymes,
No scheme, no plan.
Just free flowing lines
Drawn together,
Forced apart.
Patterns are broken and form
Again.
In the cramped spaces
At the edge of the page.
You are onto something great!
A work of art!
But everything is too much,
Takes up the space I need.
The ink bleeds,
I crumple the paper.
If they judged art by the smears on your hands,
My dear, you would be Picasso!
Words fill your innermost margins,
All saying
Nothing.
The ink bleeds,
I crumple the paper.
Cobble all the versions together,
Make myself Frankenstein.
Half completed,
Still searching,
Through the trails, I remain
A rough draft.
Sent from my iPhone
Hidden Jules 