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I used to write my poems in ink.
I didn’t believe in revision.
You can’t take back wrong words spoken
or undo the stupid mistakes you’ve made.
I thought, why should poetry be any different?

A revised poem
is an entirely new poem.
Written by an entirely different person.
Even if the author remains the same.

I am not who I was a second ago.
Your words have changed me.

Stare deeply into a lake of words.
Fail to find my own reflection.
I am changing even as I write this.
So I leave my broken words where they’ve fallen.
They stare back at me with a horrifying permanence.
Yet from a certain angle,
the glass still sparkles
when the sunlight strikes it just right.
A gentle reminder
that even mistakes can be beautiful.

That even this has the potential to be poetry,
even if it’s not.