If I couldn’t sing,
I think maybe then I could really sing.
Then I might be free.

I’d wail and whine and
sound average or below,
and it wouldn’t matter because
What I sang would be exactly
what I meant to say.

Not homogenized
carefully constructed
sanded and polished
until I don’t care what it is anymore.
(As long as it sounds good.)

If I couldn’t sing
then I think whatever words were in me,
I’d just sing them.
(Imagine that … just sing them!)
Then I might be free.

How did I sing when I was little
and singing was what we all–
with little, happy voices–just did?
I can’t remember.

Perfection is a prison
and each note is wrapped in a straight jacket.
All of it is holding hostage a real thing that
most have never heard.
Not even me.

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3 thoughts on “Perfectionism

  1. Nilson says:

    It’s a great poem!
    Did you write it?

  2. Tracie says:

    Thank you Nilson! Yes, I wrote it.

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