Saturday, February 4, 2012

Without Proofreading or Perfection

The low string pulling.  Has been happening
for some time now, the sensation of being tugged
ashore by some rope tied around my middle.

I wonder where I am going but not so much either.
I don't know how to explain it.  Ah.  There is a curiosity
rather than a fear.

Decide between competition and compassion.

This weekend I obsess about two small mistakes.
Have you done this?
Allowed the internal dictator to command the larger portion
of your time worrying about small things like accidentally pronouncing an author's name incorrectly or saying simile when you meant metaphor?

The liar hits me low, at my pride.  When I could be thinking of so many
victories, that I may have helped someone with the same fear of being "not enough" or somehow "not qualified."

These wars parade so ugly between the countries inside (the borders of) myself.

And the hope comes blaring trumpet of

woman sitting cleared and humming
knowing the low string pulling is God
who will always, already love
some girl who is always, already going off to war.

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