there are straight lines
on the pages of my notebook
formal boundaries for the pen
of a wild child
or a serious scribe
but not this poet
similes can be sloppy
metaphors even messier
when lyrics jump around
scribbles and cross outs
waste sheets of paper
though some words
I’ll squeeze into a corner
to keep them from escaping
it’s part of a search
a shuffle and sift
of text to find it
the jeweled line
that when it’s polished
and set in place
ignites a poem
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