The Anguish Of A Sentence Not Perfected

Time and again,
I will write a line,
Create it,
Only to destroy it,
Believing that in its shattering,
A more perfect union,
A more perfect representation will manifest,
Just like my destiny,
To crisscross this earth,
In search of you,
My sweet dalliance,
Seems a bizarre affront,
To my stream of consciousness,
Though my words are becoming more delicate now,
As I am aging,
Struggling to reveal myself to the world,
Not arrogance I assure you,
Self assuredness perhaps,
Though I suspect that it is more an inherent understanding,
Of all that is me,
At once true and untrue,
Fact and fiction,
So if it rubs you the wrong way,
I beseech you to accept my humble apologies,
I am sorry if you misread these words,
Not understanding that they are your betrothal,
They are the gift of me,
To you,
Good, bad or indifferent,
I throw myself out to the wolves,
Those of the genesis,
Hoping to discover that as a sheep dressed in wolves clothing,
I am safe from the ravaging bites of self loathing,
Intense criticisms that would shock and awe you,
For I am not comfortable in this skin,
But daily,
Gaining momentum,
A literary rebel,
And I will rebel,
Against an attacker,
Who can not see that this bold statement,
These bold statements,
Are nothing more,
Than failed attempts,
At the perfect sentence,
To you jewels in a crown,
Or prizes in a Cracker Jack box,
Though for me,
Less than ideal,
This anguish I feel,
For a sentence,
Not yet perfected,

Though now fresh muse in sight,

The delight of that sentence seems manifest,




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