One of the bitter-as-burnt-toast kind of things in the world is when a writer's (1) book remains empty for a time where even their clock ceased
ticking."

{She used to write in the way flowers needed a cold snap before they could bloom.}

What if I was perfect?
Would I miss making mistakes?
Moreover,
Would the mistakes miss breaking me?
It depends how I perceive,
Whether or not it may deceive,
What this life has in store for me.
Would I lavish in fame?
Or
Would I succumb to shame?
Waking up hygienically sustained,
No comb,
Nor Brush,
Rather
Symmetrically retained.
Could I handle the resentment?
Or
The wannabes that lurk in a basement?
From ***** looks,
To grossly stained shirts,
There is just too much to look out for.
What is it about being perfect that is so great?
All that arises are questions that dictate.
It must be fate,
For man to initiate,
Against the ones who they relish to be.
If that’s what it takes to be number one,
I’ll be done before I've begun.