A poem by Isabelle Sorrells

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Oftentimes

I have this idea in my head

Of how I want it to go.

A poem,

A story,

Or essay,

I always have a picture before I start –

Vague or not.

When I do first put pen to paper

It starts how it should

But then it runs away from me

And makes a life of its own.

Never has a piece of writing

Ever been exactly what I wanted it to be,

And it is a rare occurrence when it is.

But I suppose that’s okay.