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
Sep 16, 2019
Sep 16, 2019 at 1:38 PM UTC
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
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