Paint is never quite the shade we imagined. The lines are never straight enough. The page always looks a little too blank.
There are perfections in every imperfection, Buried under crossed out lines and crumpled pieces of paper. Every eraser-stained, college ruled notebook full of half-baked ideas and smudged words that just don’t quite feel right.
The final product is in there somewhere, like black-out poetry stitched together, patched up, and transformed into something beautiful.
- x marks the spot
written for my second prompt in Creative Writing - an ars poetica