Never-ending the task
Of seeking perfection
Inside each crumpled start
That waits in the waste
Crushed by living hands
Enslaved by cultured minds
Seeking to find perfection
Filling the bin with beauty
Over and over again
Hidden in paper balls
Tossed onto silent waste
Each wishing for more lines
To grace their empty space
The countless bold starts
At the top of each page
Can teach a writer
That hari-kari is real
Inside a crumpled ball
Tossed into the pile
While failure only visits
If our stories die through
Bad reading or soft writing
Or implausible situations
All needing to be understood
And begging to be forgiven
Before a story can unfold
Logically and sensibly
In its own perfect way
