ready made three

the genius in your head thwarted again,
you sit. poised. ready to sweep the entire
work into the bin. anchored in a stormy
contemplation, fixated on the bent whiteness
resting softly and unmelting, inches away,
how could one do anything but silently
mourn each golden mean, each possible
outcome that never came? each clean line
led to three disappointing tears,
a puncture, and the death of an ideal.
still, what can one really accomplish
with safety scissors, mandatory naptime
on the horizon, everyone cleaning up
for snack time (of all things)?
the question, really, is whether or not
one should suffer the coming shame
of misshapen efforts taped in public
at the eye level of adults, in particular
the parents, prone to meaningless praise
but also wont to criticize everything
but the work of their own offspring.
the judges view the world with vicarious bias,
and are therefore not to be trusted.
one wants a bit of anger here, doesn’t one?
something hot and wild and bold
and full of action, something in which
to get oneself caught up. but the not caring
takes over. a sigh comes and goes. the situation
quickly seems not worth the effort.
slither out of this too-small seat
and slump it over to the story mats.
think about philosophy. tell yourself
tomorrow is another day, this is not the end.
you will make up for this in other ways,
you will.


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