Some lines don't rhyme
Others are irrelevant
Some words just plain don't make sense
So we cross them out
We cross out things that aren't good enough
That don't have any explanation
Or a reason to be at all
But where do all these cross-outs go?
Are there piles of unwanted words,
That just don't fit quiet right?
Or is there a whole world of discarded stanzas,
And poems that don't make sense?
Sometimes we're insecure with our words
So we cross them out just like that
Everyone has their own waste bin of recycled ideas
Not good enough for paper
I too have my own pile of shame erased from paper
My own overflowing bin of insecurity's
But I'm learning to be proud of my words
And I'm slowly re-copying my cross-outs