Words are kind of my thing, I write, I talk,
and yet, I never was a poet.
I always felt too tight, bottled up,
what if the words were wrong?
What if they didn’t flow, or fit, or rhyme?
What if they weren’t perfect?
Perfection was my Great Wall of China,
Impressive in the middle, if unfinished at the ends.
It was impossible to be perfect, I knew
I couldn’t reach that high, that wide.
I’d shuffle pretty parts as people passed
keeping them from seeing what lay undone.
Until tired, I saw with new eyes my fellow shufflers
All exhausted from the motion meant to hide.
And others, who had laid their pretty bits aside
still close at hand, but not as screens for broken things inside
Instead they opened wide their hearts and lifted up their heads
No longer shamed, with joy their daily bread.
Then words arose, delicious aromas of sweetness wafting by
I took my paper, and drawing one down began to write.