done is better than perfect: a poem

never satisfied

spend my whole life

write

cross it out

scrap that

start over

will I ever accomplish anything

or will it always be a blank page

eraser marks

torn in half

balled up

set a flame

can’t stand to see my words sprawled out on a page

naked, vulnerable, on display

I curse my words

the way I curse myself

ugly

incomplete

not good enough

but these are the only words I know

it’s not fair to keep them

locked away

out of sight

circling in my head at night

begging me

to set them free

“done is better than perfect”

my professor said to me

so fuck it

here they are

my clumsy words

they aren’t eloquent or nice

and what do you know,

everything turned out alright.

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