Perfectionists

A short poem I wrote early this year, inspired by an inability I had to let things just be.

It is terrible to be a perfectionist:
One has awoken.
Birds sing, sun beams.
One thing, however, is wrong,
must always be wrong.
Your day is gone; in early dawn; already gone.

Reviews

[maurice_forgets]

Hi Emily,

As I read this, these lines feel too clipped and fragmented. It feels like this piece wants to be a plain language write (a form which I adore, by the way!); as such, I would allow these lines to unfurl into full (and near-grammatically complete) expression. Write this like you were caught having a conversation with yourself, maybe.

One other small observation: for so few lines, there is a heavy presence of punctuation, as though the natural rhythm of breathing (and reading) should be antagonized. My suggestion: make sure that you read this aloud, as we will read it, and check that it flows (or doesn't flow) as you intend.

Thanks for sharing!

mf