I think I used to do this all the time.
Poems, I mean; not very well, of course.
Clumsy iambs, toes caught on the rhyme,
And dactyls graceful as a three-legg'd horse.
Clumsy, but it didn't matter then.
No one cared much when the meter'd slip.
I was my only reader, so no sin
To sit, pull out a pen, and let 'er rip.
I miss that freedom now, that unconcern
So much like bravery. Ignorance in there too,
For youth lets us write things that we would burn
By armloads, were we older, if we knew.
Like this, for instance. Still, I'll let it stay.
I'll get the matches out another day.