If by the end of this poem it isn’t perfect,
It’s not qualified to be seen by others eyes.
It’s not good enough.
I might find the poem pleasing,
But it doesn’t matter what I think.

Poetry is often an extension of me.
Recollection of an event,
Reflection of a day
Withholding multiple purposes
Even the purpose to have no purpose at all.

If by the end of this poem I don’t have your attention
Why bother writing in the first place?
I write, you listen, we agree
Or at least have you see from my point of view.
My poetry has standards, regulations, and rules
It must consist of significance.
Errors are not allowed, and frowned upon like a disapproving mother.

And then I found Hello Poetry.
A site designed for people to write in spite of what other might think.
I pass through hundreds and hundreds of poems each day,
But never do I question its worthiness to be seen.

Let’s go back to when I mentioned a poem is an extension of me.

If by the end of this poem it isn’t perfect,
Then I’ve done exactly what needed to be done;
Letting it be seen regardless if my mind thinks it's good enough.

It’s time I smash perfection
Snap off it's ***** little head
And twist off it's twiggy little legs
No better than a barbie doll
That really looks like no one at all…

It's time a banish perfection for good
And it's good for nothing existance.

I’ve already started breaking the glass ceiling which is close above me.

Sometimes I feel like Alice in Wonderland,
Trapped in a house too small for her body,
Or locked in a room, feeling so tiny
The key out of reach, but I can see it daunting me.

Either I feel suffocated with the walls closing in,
Or the cliché of, so close but yet so far.
We have all been there.
It feels endless when we’re in it
But once we are out and looking back,
We realize it wasn’t so bad.

When I look back, I catch myself saying,  
“That's it? That's all I was worried about?”

But I understand, when we are in, we are in it.
We are neck high in ****, and the **** is still rising.
Nothing feels worse, because we have nothing to compare it to.

It feels like we will never survive this
But somehow we do.
We always do.

When the world feels so big and I feel so small,
I try to remind myself of Alice.
She got out somehow.
Either on her own, or someone came along.

We are not alone.
We are just like Alice;
Sometimes feeling trapped
But once we look back
It will only feel like a distant dream…

Someone will shake us, and they will say,
"Good Morning, you over slept, it must have been a great dream."
And we will tell them,
"No, I fell in this Hole and it was hell, but I got out like Mad Hatter, and even made some friends along the way."
They will say,
"Now that you're awake, I made breakfast, would you like some Toast on the side?"
Then we would just look at them with the most Curious of eyes...