Spots in the poem seem incomplete,
They are hard to fill and complete,
With parts of the poems life being away,
It might not live to see the light of day,
It might not longer have the feeling to let out a “hooray!”
I can try to plug back up the holes,
But in what holes does what go?
I try to put in the holes the highs and lows,
So no one wont sniff out curiosity with there nose,
But the one who always knows,
Is the one that always shows,
Is essence I can be the editor in chief,
And end this poem to leave it to grief,
But even with holes the poem survives,
Could the holes just act as paths for lies?
Or is it bumps of a reaction like hives?
The holes just might be waiting for a patch,
That once stocked treasure and are now left with no thatch,
In the end, the holes are there and that should be,
So others are able to make its fate from what they see,