poetry, writing

Perfectionism

Biting my tongue which lightly touches my lips,

I sit, concentrating, paintbrush in hand.

My faces skews up to almost a scowl,

really, it isn’t pretty to see.

The strokes do not come easy,

uncertainty clouds my mind, shakes my fingers.

I don’t know why I get this way,

I look around at the other pottery painters,

they laugh, talking with their friends.

For me however, I need tunnel vision,

I need to focus on what I do.

Art, this art, makes me walk away from my work,

makes me look elsewhere, but it is hard.

I see my perfectionist trying to come out.

Don’t color outside the lines!

Did I get the right paints?

Will this turn out good enough to give?

Straighten up that painted edge,

careful, careful, CAREFUL!

I know, if I’d just relax, let go a little,

it will turn out better than how I’m doing now.

I put the piece down, then rinse the brush.

I pause, and I breathe. I relax my face,

unclench my jaw and realize I’ve bit my tongue.

I accept where I am, and move on.

The piece was really done, do any more

and I’ll really mess it up. STOP.

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