A poem by Isabelle Sorrells
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.
