I am not flawless

Nobody but a fool says they are.

My nails are uneven

Because I bite them worrying

whether my work’s even

worth reading.

My hair is unbrushed

when I’ve danced.

I do so so often I’m always flushed

and giving sideways glances

at those who won’t up their ante.

I feel like I’m stuck in a pattern, a downward spiral, in a tight box, on an escalator to the shipping bays near the docks of hell.

In short, I’m an overcommitted workaholic.

And it never turns out well.

For me

or my body.

Dry cracked lips

on slips of paper

after every caper the pay

won’t make the grade

and neither will I.

But the money comes

and so do my grades

and I ride out on the paranoia shock waves

into the next bruising day

I work,

I eat,

I sleep

on repeat.

and in the end

I hold in my hand

a stack of done plays

and a list full of As.

Though I am not flawless,

I could be more flawed than this.