I am a work not in progress
A haphazardly constructed script
Archived on the writing desk
Never to be thought of or pondered
But to be locked away in the cupboard
Lest anyone attempt to trace
I am a work not in progress
An uneven amorphous illustration
Shabbily drawn with a blunt pencil
By an artist who herself looked slightly dreadful
To be left in the inner room on a canvas
Not to be approached for a gander
I am a work not in progress
An unstable meld of unsound emotions
A cantankerous chorus of cussing and clamour
A sight not for sore eyes
Who can’t seem to show up to a single event on time
Don’t come to me for any bit of life advice
I am a work not in progress
I am the completed product
A haphazardly constructed script
An uneven amorphous illustration
An unstable meld of unsound emotions
And yet I remain worthy of love
