Glorious
Full of splendor
And splendid.
But I fail every time.
It's just not good enough.
(I'm not good enough.)
(I'm not good enough.)
It's all wrong.
I built it
too hastily
too carefully
too long
too short
too wordy
too foolish.
Lie to me.
Tell me you like it.
I'll believe you.
I'll eat it up.
I know you just said that we should lie to you, but I promise I'm not lying when I say that I love this poem. Another of our poets here calls herself "a recovering perfectionist," too....
ReplyDeleteThat would be me. I'm a recovering perfectionist. And this poem speaks to me -- and yeah, I love it -- go figure. :)
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