Nightwatch - A poem
I crave caprice and folly.
Oh to throw open the doors
leave them unlocked, for once
Milk Duds and hot dogs for dinner.
Run sans bra through the suburban streets
(where the irony is lost
and the housewives wipe their hands
of judgement onto fresh aprons).
Forget sunscreen, keys,
Even a password.
Snip the prettiest flower,
spend time forgetting it is running out.
In the name of pleasure and living,
forgive myself for being born
such a god-damned scaredy cat.
Do you think I have what it takes?
I need to borrow your permission.
I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping stone just right, you won't have to die. The truth is you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren't even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you, and have a lot more fun while they're doing it.