The Author's Apology for Her Work

When first I took my pen in hand,
I did not yet understand
That often words go their own way,
Despite what I had wished to say.
Often times, I meant to write
Not the finished poem before your sight,
But some other poem still in my mind,
Waiting for another time.
But still, the written poem is here,
Rough and often lacking cheer,
Forgoing rhyme, and hardly verse,
Meterless (and that is worse.)
And yet such poems do need a home
So here they ever more shall drone.
I do not ask that you should stay,
But something new may come this way,
Buried 'neath the dreadful poems,
Something worth reading in the gloam.
Or maybe not, yet I disburse
Drivel à la Free Verse.