A Rusty Squeeze Box Poem

My poem has seized solid,
It doesn't flow or beat.
Its meter's off by miles,
Perhaps one to delete.

It craves poetry oil,
To loosen up a bit.
Oil as in new words,
Fresh idioms to submit.

A complete poem overhaul,
I shall now perform.
My rusty squeeze box poem,
I gladly will transform.

It reads a little clunky,
I'll rewrite every rhyme.
Polish them up a bit,
Shining line by line.

The last verse tricky,
A message to rethink.
Not for it to vanish,
Like an invisible ink.

That should be suffice,
My rusty poem freed.
Now flowing so smoothly,
And easier to read.