Draft No. 2

Like the torn pages
and ripped ends in the binding
I am draft number 2
my story still unwinding
I am in between phases
Still lost in the designing 
I am not perfected
My words need refining
Iv'e been inked and scratched
But the pen is a friend of mine
Iv'e been folded and reused
and saved to finish at a later time
my brother was the first draft,
where loose ideas flooded the lines
But once he became "just a concept-"
he was crumpled and cast aside.
My sister is draft 3-
the better of us all-
with words we'd never think to house
writing hits
where we hit walls;
no mistakes to be found
but even she
gets too deep-
so she gets tossed out-
and then it's back to me.
I am dissected,
my essence removed-
then I'm trashed, and copied
until I become worn out
and my meaning gets choppy-
my edges are blurred
from bits of spilled coffee-
I am just paper now,
old and gaudy.
I have some substance,
but not enough to push thru
but I had a good run-
but I am nothing new.
So now I'm kept as an example
in a box meant for shoes
I am not final,
I am not perfect;
I am draft number two.