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on perfectionism

How do you say it?

By Hannah Arianna AshtonPublished 2 years ago 2 min read
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on perfectionism
Photo by Jackson Hendry on Unsplash

Have you ever reached for something underwater,

your hands just skimming the surface?

You know what you're looking for, but the image is blurred,

as if you only knew it by its purpose.

And though it may feel obscured you know you're close,

about to brush it with your fingers.

In your mind you can see it winking at you just out of reach

beyond the waves like Gatsby's green light

but you can't quite put a finger on it, and the thought lingers

that you will know it when you find it.

but it lurks behind a fear - maybe that was it?

or that... and suddenly you're much less sure.

You realize you don't know where the bottom lies

but how quickly everything sinks, like your stomach,

you think - no, you thought you could stomach the taste

of saltwater in your mouth but it turns out

that drowning in tears isn't the way to go.

If only I could know what to say...

So I keep talking and hope that by pouring out words

I might discover that the right ones had spilled off my tongue,

falling together in a perfect combination

of syllables and sound

of meaning and muse.

But Mnemosyne eludes this one magic chance and the probability

of seeing the words dance out of my mind, into air, onto paper,

vanishes behind that convenient and shocking cloud of smoke.

It gets in my eyes sometimes and instead of singing I cough,

choking on thick air when my empty words have filled it with nothing.

When things start to fall apart

I can't let it show

because if I let them know

it wouldn't be perfect anymore,

like a magician revealed behind a curtain.

The magic is gone and the meaning is lost,

hidden in my mind. If only I could find

the right way to say it.

So I keep talking, keep trying to fill the silence stretched out before me

encased in a gossamer shell of my own uncertainty.

I keep talking, frozen with fear that this flower of a thought

blooming in my mind

will wither without ever seeing sunlight.

I keep talking, frantically tearing at the petals,

worrying over each word.

What if I can't find the right way to say what I think?

I keep trying,

I keep talking.

slam poetry
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About the Creator

Hannah Arianna Ashton

A PNW girl living in the Big Apple. My heart belongs to art, history, and literature. Currently reading: The Illustrated Man.

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