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The Right Words
A girl sits at a battered desk,
tangled hair tumbling loose from her braid,
green eyes squinting in concentration
at the blank notebook in front of her.
She wields her pen like a slender sword,
stabbing fiercely at the enemy armies
of the empty page
until the paper battlefield
is smeared with inky blood.
Then, a mistake.
A careless scribble, a poorly chosen word.
She rips the page out and hurls it aside,
the shreds drifting down, down, down
like tattered butterflies,
where they join heaps of crumpled paper,
the wreckage of other failed attempts
strewn and scattered across the carpet
like a quiet snowfall of despair.
The girl sighs,
turns to a clean page,
and begins again,
trying to find the right words.
She doesn't know that sometimes,
a story has to die over and over again
before it can live.
She doesn't know that sometimes,
there are no right words.
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This article has 1 comment.
The girl in this poem is me. I have tried many times to write something, only for my perfectionism to get in the way. I would get frustrated and start over at every mistake, eventually giving up in despair. Now, I am learning to fight my perfectionism and accept that even though nothing will ever be as perfect as I'd like it to be, I can still create beautiful things.