Surrounded by the scraps of art,
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My floor is now littered
With screwed up pages that contain
Half written sentences that died
A crumpled, short life
On the cross of unsatisfactory.
O how I hate my idiosyncrasy,
As I look for a rhyme that rhymes with rhyme.
Alliteration, sometimes comes by accident
Or my metaphor falls short of understanding.
Of course, I could just let it go as it is...
But that is not me.