The Map to Done

I grew up in the outskirts of a city,

'Perfection' in the common tongue.

Where everything had to be pretty

And criticism, like bees, stung.

A short trek down sweeping slopes,

'Failure' comes into view.

Where all the tired, burned out folks

Simply don't know what to do.

I've never reached the city walls,

No matter how hard I try.

Each sturdy step leads to falls

And makes me want to cry.

One step forwards is a short roll back,

'Failure' seems ever nearer.

But when I stop and change my tack,

The way is suddenly clearer.

My city of 'Perfection' isn't real,

Its walls are mere illusion.

I set my sights now on where I feel

My work can reach a conclusion.

No longer do I fall so far

That 'Failure' is a result foregone.

Each step now brings me to the bar

In the centre of the town called 'Done'.