Poem 1001

I'm a thousand poems in
Number 37 made me grin
And 656 was ok
But none were quite what I wanted to say
Words were never my forte

I'm on poem 1001
And I'm feeling quite far from done
But I'll probably die
Before I satisfy
Myself but I'm still going to try

1000 sheets of paper covered in my brain
If you read a single one of them you'd color me insane
But I like them as if they were my friends
Who never call and let be burn the candle at both ends
And never seem to care, except maybe a couple in the 10s

There's something always wrong within the lines
With every re-read, a new one shines
But eventually I just ignore the wrong
Say who cares if I dragged it out too long
Or if the rhyme and rhythm is ruined by the last line

At least I got my frustrations on the page
And I can leave my room today