[gripping The Sink] Perfectionism Does Not Help Me Avoid Embarrassment Or Shame. Perfectionism Is In

i have a soft secret wish that conspires against me in the sleepy hours of late afternoon when my big dog sighs into my shoulder and nuzzles under my arm while we both procrastinate his walk a little longer just until we are done being on the couch together, curled up

i need to believe that if he could choose, he would stay looped indelicately, his legs a cascade in the air rolling his back on the only floor i can afford him instead of the romantic impossible wild

there are moments where his ears perk up at a rabbit and he watches their white tail tuck into a bush, like a wink. i don't know what dogs dream about but i hope to god

if he is dreaming about being a wolf he is not disappointed when he wakes up to blunted teeth

writers and artists will go "this isn't good enough." my brother in christ, you're creating something new out of nothing and expressing yourself creatively. your productivity and unrealistic standards of perfection do not define you or the worth of your art. you're doing great.

The Child You Never Wanted

you tell me to brush my own hair I don’t know how you roll your eyes and tell me to figure it out

I’m brushing as hard as I can Tearing pieces of my hair out with knots, clumped up and bloody

I’m crying and go to tell you there’s blood mommy I’m not sure if what I’m doing is right

But you scream at me for bothering you Can’t you do anything by yourself? Why did I even have you?

I run and hug her, tell her I’m sorry I cried I love you mommy, I won’t ask again

I squeeze harder, if the hug is big enough it shows how much you love them

She doesn’t hug me back.

#203

It just kept haunting.

Vying for a steely, totalitarian grasp on my thoughts,

Snatching with it’s thick greedy fingers at fragments of tranquility,

Lurking in every shadowed alleyway of my subconscious.

I eventually concluded that I needed to settle this with a confrontation.

The next time it tried to influence my thinking, I asked,

“Why are you here? What do you want?”

It rung it's hands for a moment, silent.

The first time, it replied “To change you.”

I tried to talk into it every attack.

It grew more anxious every time I asked, as if no one took the time to confer with it.

Its answers became more telling

“So you will suffer for what you've done.”

“You need to remember what a miserable creature you are.”

“I will not leave your side. I am what you deserve.”

It is extremely insistent.

But I know it will not retain this power forever.

I will continue to note its arrival.

Someday, I hope that it will be a fleeting, inconsequential specter.

But today isn’t someday I suppose.

We all live with demons.

Sadly, this isn’t the first or last.

Scattered poertry from my scattered brain (is this anything? idk)

this is just my opinion but i think any good media needs obsession behind it. it needs passion, the kind of passion that's no longer "gentle scented candle" and is now "oh shit the house caught on fire". it needs a creator that's biting the floorboards and gnawing the story off their skin. creators are supposed to be wild animals. they are supposed to want to tell a story with the ferocity of eating a good stone fruit while standing over the sink. the same protective, strange instinct as being 7 and making mud potions in pink teacups: you gotta get weird with it.

good media needs unhinged, googling-at-midnight kind of energy. it needs "what kind of seams are invented on this planet" energy and "im just gonna trust the audience to roll with me about this" energy. it needs one person (at least) screaming into the void with so much drive and energy that it forces the story to be real.

sometimes people are baffled when fanfic has some stunning jaw-dropping tattoo-it-on-you lines. and i'm like - well, i don't go here, but that makes sense to me. of fucking course people who have this amount of passion are going to create something good. they moved from a place of genuine love and enjoyment.

so yeah, duh! saturday cartoons have banger lines. random street art is sometimes the most precious heart-wrenching shit you've ever seen. someone singing on tiktok ends up creating your next favorite song. youtubers are giving us 5 hours of carefully researched content. all of this is the impossible equation to latestage capitalism. like, you can't force something to be good. AI cannot make it good. no amount of focus-group testing or market research. what makes a story worth listening to is that someone cares so much about telling it - through dance, art, music, whatever it takes - that they are just a little unhinged about it.

one time my friend told me he stayed up all night researching how many ways there are to peel an orange. he wrote me a poem that made me cry on public transportation. the love came through it like pith, you know? the words all came apart in my hands. it tasted like breakfast.

Once a little boy went to school. One morning The teacher said: “Today we are going to make a picture.” “Good!” thought the little boy. He liked to make all kinds; Lions and tigers, Chickens and cows, Trains and boats; And he took out his box of crayons And began to draw.

But the teacher said, “Wait!” “It is not time to begin!” And she waited until everyone looked ready. “Now,” said the teacher, “We are going to make flowers.” “Good!” thought the little boy, He liked to make beautiful ones With his pink and orange and blue crayons. But the teacher said “Wait!” “And I will show you how.” And it was red, with a green stem. “There,” said the teacher, “Now you may begin.”

The little boy looked at his teacher’s flower Then he looked at his own flower. He liked his flower better than the teacher’s But he did not say this. He just turned his paper over, And made a flower like the teacher’s. It was red, with a green stem.

On another day The teacher said: “Today we are going to make something with clay.” “Good!” thought the little boy; He liked clay. He could make all kinds of things with clay: Snakes and snowmen, Elephants and mice, Cars and trucks And he began to pull and pinch His ball of clay.

But the teacher said, “Wait!” “It is not time to begin!” And she waited until everyone looked ready. “Now,” said the teacher, “We are going to make a dish.” “Good!” thought the little boy, He liked to make dishes. And he began to make some That were all shapes and sizes.

But the teacher said “Wait!” “And I will show you how.” And she showed everyone how to make One deep dish. “There,” said the teacher, “Now you may begin.”

The little boy looked at the teacher’s dish; Then he looked at his own. He liked his better than the teacher’s But he did not say this. He just rolled his clay into a big ball again And made a dish like the teacher’s. It was a deep dish.

And pretty soon The little boy learned to wait, And to watch And to make things just like the teacher. And pretty soon He didn’t make things of his own anymore.

Then it happened That the little boy and his family Moved to another house, In another city, And the little boy Had to go to another school.

The teacher said: “Today we are going to make a picture.” “Good!” thought the little boy. And he waited for the teacher To tell what to do. But the teacher didn’t say anything. She just walked around the room.

When she came to the little boy She asked, “Don’t you want to make a picture?” “Yes,” said the little boy. “What are we going to make?” “I don’t know until you make it,” said the teacher. “How shall I make it?” asked the little boy. “Why, anyway you like,” said the teacher. “And any color?” asked the little boy. “Any color,” said the teacher. And he began to make a red flower with a green stem.

~Helen Buckley, The Little Boy

Ough you go to therapy you take your meds you learn to drive you make friends you graduate college you get a dog you rent a cute apartment you learn to love properly and then one person says something and it makes you feel like a kid again, alone on the swing

The most sure sign that someone doesn’t know much about poetry is when they insist that poetry has to rhyme.

And the most sure sign that someone is a little too pretentious about poetry is when they say that they hate rhyming poetry.