How many relationships have been remembered, or explored, in the attempt to forge a perfect poem? Memory reminds you of your place. It doesn’t matter, now or then, who devised your initial reaction to the many sorry mistakes.
How many regrets, how many evil thoughts, forsaken sentiments or countless untruths have you counted on, or encountered, in an effort to scratch out your prose into a form another human may accept, yet allow you to go on living?
How many mornings, how many pencils, how much coffee, has been wasted trying to find the right word? Each purposeful letter you surrender to a page has been there, here, or elsewhere before. If only your cluttered thoughts.
No poem is perfect, even those from bards you envy or admire. They too had faults as countless as your own. It is through collective imperfection that we learn and continue learning. Without flaws we have so very little to write about.
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