In a bitter chiselling winter gust, <br />Dusty flecks of snow whirl about in the air around me, <br />Enveloping my figure in a spiral of white, <br />While I wait impatiently for my bus to appear on the horizon. <br /> <br />Bored and chilled to the bone, <br />I scrape up a rough pile of greyed snow, <br />Delicately shape it with my clunky boots, <br />Smoothly rounding out the sides into a fat cylinder, and <br />Gently patting down on soft surface until it’s nice and flat. <br /> <br />Perfect. <br /> <br />Still there is a tiny chink at the edge where loose snow chipped off. <br />Try as I might, I cannot block up the tedious gap. <br />It's almost perfect - just with one small flaw. <br />Just like me. <br /> <br />Me, the perfectionist, who likes, wants, needs everything to be absolutely perfect. <br />Me, the perfectionist, who will not, cannot, break this never-ending cycle. <br />Me, who, despite my perfectionism in my work, is not perfect in life. <br />Me, whose one rather large flaw is perfectionism itself - <br /> <br />Did someone craft me as did I the snow castle? <br />Did they try to perfect me as I tried to? <br />Were they satisfied with me, <br />Even with my many flaws? <br />And you? <br />Will you see me, <br />Know me, <br />Accept me?<br /><br />Leslie Ching<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/perfectionist/
