I wrote this poem six times and hated every version.
The first was too long. The second was trying too hard. The third rhymed accidentally and I panicked.
The fourth was someone else’s voice. The fifth was almost right but the ending landed wrong like a joke told too slowly.
The sixth I deleted and stared at the blank screen and typed this instead.
This is draft seven. It’s not the poem I set out to write. But maybe that’s the thing about writing. You aim for the window and climb through the door.