Things left unfinished.

Going through a pile of books for something specific today, I happened upon half a sonnet I'd completely forgotten trying to write. Followed by a sizable bundle of notes and lines and drafts from the summer before. Some quite nice lines, that deserve to be set in a complete poem. Some that were discarded because they weren't going anywhere and doing it awkwardly.

Plenty of ideas and notes that I wrote thinking 'I simply must turn this into a poem' but haven't, yet.

And spread over half a dozen sheets, written around and through a bunch of other poems, one that I did finish. It was the reason most of the other scraps made it to paper. I had an idea I wanted to impress upon someone, and figured putting it in verse would make it more convincing. Kept those pages in my pockets for weeks, agonising over a line at a time.

Except for the ocassional awkward - if earnest - line, I am and was pretty happy with it in the end.

( Forty-eightish line poem after the cut. )