My Limited Perfection
In rhyme, I’m a perfectionist;
In other things, I’m not.
You’d think I’d treat all things the same
But rhyme is what I’ve got.
For patience is a virtue which
I really don’t possess.
I’ll rush though projects though results
Will surely not impress.
My sewing comes out crooked
And my seams don’t seem to match.
My baking skill are mediocre,
Though I bake from scratch.
You’d never want me as your chef;
I clean, but things don’t shine
And wrapping gifts has never been
A special skill of mine.
My ironing leaves creases
And technology’s a bane.
My plants all droop and getting rid
Of clutter is a pain.
But when I write, I’ll work each line
Until the rhyme’s in sync.
My pencil and eraser let me
Change things as I think.
Some people are obsessive
‘Bout so much, and all the time
While as for me, that just applies
To writing poems in rhyme.
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