The Page Before I Rip It Poem by Bidyarnab Das

This page almost died.
Crossed out lines like scars.
Three false starts that went nowhere.
One angry scribble that tore the paper.

I was going to rip it.
Ball it up. Make it disappear.
Like it never tried to be a poem.
Like I never tried to be a poet.

But then I saw line four.
Just four words, half-erased:
'I'm still writing this.'

So I kept it.
Not because it's good.
Because it's honest.

Some poems are trophies.
This one's a survivor.
And so am I.