Tripping in my stomach
Turning and coiling tight
Into quivering little balls.
I shake my head
And spoon out the cobwebs
To unearth searing clarity.
Why do I do the things I do?
Say the things I say?
Feel the things I feel?
Is any of it real?
Feet pounding on the dirt
Kicking up sand
Breath snagged on a cough
Hand outstretched toward an impossible end
No one can achieve perfection --
That word with no meaning
Because meaning is scratched and dented with deep reds, bright violets, soft blues, happy oranges, frank greens
And perfection is a glass table with an ice tablecloth
That you slide right off,
With the force of your glaring reflection.
I put on the hat that says my name across the front,
The only honest hat I can wear.
Thoughts swish in and out of words
And I cannot apologize for my scratches and dents,
My reds, violets, blues, oranges, and greens.
I can only present them as my painting,
My work of art.
And still, sometimes
Little footsteps trip.