My fingertips sit at the keyboard,
Aching for the perfect words.
“Perfect isn’t real.” I say,
But yet my eyes still stare.
They stare the white screen down,
Yearning to read my careless work.
Bruises chunked on my face,
From all the doubts in my brain.
Yet my fingers still ache,
As I hold down the backspace.
My neck feels like a brick,
As sweat sweeps across my face.
I check the clock,
3 hours I sat here with a blank stare.
3 hours I’ve lost…
No, I've lost more than that.
My head feels ill,
As I repeat the same gutted line.
“Perfect isn’t real.”
My fingertips peel off as I slam my computer close.
My skin feeling like a riptide,
My thoughts like explosions across the sky,
Except instead of beautiful colors.
All I got was this.