a hundred poems or more

in an effort to find

a hundred

half decent poems

to throw into a small book

before

i die.

i struggle and moan

at the slew

of thousands.

i pull what little hair

i have left

from my head and sigh.

i want to rewrite

every one of them.

nothing feels finished,

nothing seems polished

and ready

for the worlds eyes.

so much babbling, so

much whining, so much

spiteful typing 

of anything 

that popped into

my mind. but there's

still time,

still a little sand left

in the hourglass.