twenty-three

twenty-three

and I’m not where I thought I’d be

thought I’d have a fancy career

my pathway there’d be perfectly clear

thought I’d be wearing power suits

classy jewelry and expensive boots

something with a lot of flair

and perfectly-styled, unfrizzy hair

was sure there’d be a house and more

was sure I’d have a garage with two doors

but I just have a regular job

and I gotta admit, I’m still a slob

I still wear converse and my flannels

still go to the store in my pajamas

never been able to tame my hair

but if I’m honest, I really don’t care

’cause when I look around and see

everything that surrounds me

I realize I have all I need

and it has nothing to do with any things

but everything to do with we

you and they and she and he

how lucky am I, without want or need

for it’s people that make my life complete

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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.