I'm Really Not, But Neither Are You
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I am not flawless
Nobody but a fool says they are.
My nails are uneven
Because I bite them worrying
whether my work’s even
worth reading.
My hair is unbrushed
when I’ve danced.
I do so so often I’m always flushed
and giving sideways glances
at those who won’t up their ante.
I feel like I’m stuck in a pattern, a downward spiral, in a tight box, on an escalator to the shipping bays near the docks of hell.
In short, I’m an overcommitted workaholic.
And it never turns out well.
For me
or my body.
Dry cracked lips
on slips of paper
after every caper the pay
won’t make the grade
and neither will I.
But the money comes
and so do my grades
and I ride out on the paranoia shock waves
into the next bruising day
I work,
I eat,
I sleep
on repeat.
and in the end
I hold in my hand
a stack of done plays
and a list full of As.
Though I am not flawless,
I could be more flawed than this.