Ode to Perfectionism

"Push on," they said,
So I did.
"Press on," they say
So I do.
But in all this pushing
I lost it
In all this pressing
My hand slid
And I fell.

This drive I allow
I permit to increase
This drive has me
In its talons
Relax your grip
O Perfectionism.
I can't breathe.

"Reach for the stars" they said
So I stood on tiptoe.
"The moon's in your pocket" they say
So I pat my thigh.
But with all this stretching
My back throbs
And with the weight of the moon
My pants are falling down.

This drive I allow
I permit to increase
And soon they'll all see
Just who I am
And I'll be alone
Relax your grip
O Perfectionism.
I can't breathe.




Ache

This ache is gentle, slow.
It wells up in my throat, to my eyes, my lashes.
They leak out singly like dew drops, running down a rose-petal cheek.
The storm clouds gather over my sunshine eyes, and one blink eclipses the remaining light, releasing a flood of quiet rain.
In this barren land, the shower is healing while hurting, external signs of internal workings.


I wrote all these three on the train on the way up to school tonight while the sunset dripped from the twilit sky. This one is probably my favorite, though it's not a poem, just a few thoughts...

When did grownups get too big to wave at passing trains?
And when are they old enough to begin waving again?
May I never be too old or young to lose self-consciousness and be a fool