New Beginnings

A bloom of anger blossoms in my chest,

unfurling as the delicate petals of a rose.

A guttural scream:

animal,

wild,

rips from my core

as my body shakes and flails with frustration.

It’s not good enough.

Disjointed, awkward,

it does not flow

and it does not breathe as it should.

I tear the paper in half.

It must be enough to create its own life.

The words must careen off the page,

and softly settle in a reader’s mind with no more than the impression of a thought.

It must be perfect.

Until it is, it’s not enough.

I am not enough.

I am as disjointed, awkward,

and pained

as whatever leaps from my pen, my keyboard, my mind.

And likewise,

I am only worth as much as I can create.

If it is not perfect, I cannot live

with myself.

I take out a clean sheet and begin again.