One Man’s Scraps Are Another Man’s Poem

Abstract ideas flitter about in my brain

like butterflies navigating a stiff August breeze.

I try unifying them into something,

a patchwork quilt of grandiose dreams

showcasing profound thoughts

that I feel are worthy of sharing

with strangers and sycophants,

maniacs and mentally sound,

downtrodden and dignitaries,

paupers and princesses

in hopes of making a lasting impression

that will forever change their lives.

But before unveiling my work to the world,

I scrutinize the stitching,

then question the pattern.

Thinking that it’s not good enough,

that it requires further alterations,

I tear apart the finished piece.

Quickly I discover that it can’t be resewn,

reassembled

or recreated.

What was once coherent,

vibrant,

profound,

now lies in ruin.

These scraps of doubt then entomb me.

Unable to manipulate the fabric,

I remain immobilized

by a misguided attempt

to cover my perceived imperfections

and bury my profound neurosis

so my frail ego

will be shielded from nonexistent ridicule.