I am appalled
By how much I still reach
For something my pen
Has never promised-
Perfection.
My pen is only obligated
To faithfully glide across the page,
To make my ethereal ideas tangible
For my wondering thoughts to find a destination.
The pen is mighty
But it cannot bear the weight
Of my expectation
The words stretch high
But they are unlikely to scale the height
Of human desire.
Writing for perfection
Only serves to diminish
My ability to savor
Whatever my pen creates.
Indeed the work was never meant
To be worshipped
As though it could redeem my soul
And save me from oblivion.
These words owe nothing to their author
They need not be perfect,
They need not make me famous,
They need not be remembered.
Indeed once they are written and read
Their work is done.
Perfect blogs
heartinscriber 