Burying a Poem

It simply wasn’t meant to be.
Two hours too many in the end.
I gently shrouded every line
With blackened brushtipped sketching pen.

Obsessing over sterile words,
I’d wrapped my worth around the verse.
I should have let it go before.
Before it went from bad to worse.

It simply wasn’t meant to be.
It can’t be forced and still be good.
It has to come emerging, free.
It has to feel it’s understood.

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