Being a perfectionist makes poetry writing a never-ending story!
It isn’t that it has to be perfect, so I can receive some kind of glory.
It is something inside of me that can’t leave well enough alone;
Second guessing every word, to find its meaningful home!
I know I’ve always been this way, questioning the value of my worth;
Perhaps in my youth, I was humiliated when I failed to present good work.
Through some act or deed I had failed somehow, and my face went red with shame;
But, I learned that my feelings though hurt, would recover just the same.
My heart has always led my life, destined to be a poet from birth;
I write to right life’s social ills and to fight for ethical worth!
I will continue to critique, though urgency guides this poet’s hand;
There is so much injustice, and little time, please join me and make a stand!