Her Name Is Perfection

Reads: 37  | Likes: 1  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic


A metaphorical exploration of my personal journey with writer's block and my current progress on overcoming it. I encourage reading this poem twice to fully understand the metaphor at play when i'm
talking about perfection.

Submitted: September 04, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 04, 2018

A A A

A A A


I never met a girl like her before.

She was truly one of a kind.

In just one night,

She compelled my hands to stone

And she sucked my creativity dry.

Plus, whenever I think I have a moment alone,

She pops up in the blink of an eye.

 

Her name is Perfection.

But she is the worst thing to ever happen to me.

 

See, we met at an Open Mic one night

While lights were low.

 

Me.

I had a pen & notebook in hand to see

If I couldn’t steal some rhymes

Or copy some poet’s flow.

Make their style my own.

 

Her.

She was watching from across the room,

Searching for a victim to latch onto.

When I caught her eye,

It seemed like she had glided to my side in no time.

 

Now we begin to chat,

But she had me at hello.

Our conversation ebbs & flows

Over poetry that’s mellow

‘Til she finally says:

“My name is Perfection.

I am everything you’ve ever wanted.

I am the girl of your dreams.

Life with me is like a movie

And this is just the first scene.”

 

Without hesitation,

We slide back to my place.

She asks me to write her a love poem

And who am I to make her wait?

So I oblige,

Channeling romantic, Shakespeare styled rhymes

Into charming poetic lines.

 

When I start to find my stride

And align the words with flow and rhyme

She says

STOP!

She snatches my paper and tells me to start from the top.

 

Okay.

So I try again.

But this time,

I barely get my pen to finish a line

When she yells and says

“You’re not trying!”

 

And now I’m pressed.

Because that cycle continues

Until there is no paper in my journal left.

At the same time, the sun starts to rise

And my mistress, suddenly, is nowhere to be seen.

I breathed out a sigh of relief but in reality,

I was far from free.

 

That was 4 years ago.

Now, Perfection visits every night.

Sucking my self-esteem and confidence

Out through my wind-pipe.

She makes it hard to even speak!

So, I’ve learned how to swallow my words around her.

 

I wrote this piece when Perfection was asleep.

And this poem,

Turned out to be one huge mistake.

Not because it is bad but because

Through writing this,

I taught myself how to breathe again.

How to write a line that doesn’t shine

But still keep the paper for another day.

To use the idea tomorrow,

In a different way.

I remember that poetry is about the stories you tell,

Not about how pretty you can make it sound.

 

With that said,

I know this poem isn’t a holy bible

That can scare the leech away

But I hope that this plea can keep

Perfection’s Vampiric Bite at bay.

 

 


© Copyright 2018 Louminescent. All rights reserved.