SHE FEELS CRAZY, PULLING PETALS FROM A DAISY

I feel
a little crazy
pulling petals from a daisy,
as I oh so long ago
was taught–

but I’m beyond,
“He loves me,
and he loves me not. . .”–

for, luckily,
that one’s an
answer
I’ve already got–

But still I keep on
with my plucking,
puzzling
and quite stuck between,
“I am perfect,”
and “I’m perfect–NOT!”–

for, in choosing
one of those,
I sort of
have to hold my nose–

for both of them
I surely over-learned,
being grossly over-taught,

and both have seemed
so obvious:
one, set as goal, quite lofty, mindless–
the other proof, stamped “paid in full”,
that over every burning coal
in hell I’d need to walk,
and I’d likely also ROT!

But, this endless plucking frenzy,
by now has me in a tizzy,
and as I put on
face of “best me,”
and try to seem
so smart and choosy,
it suddenly occurs to me–

That questioning the question
is what finally
brings me the solution
that I’ve never really even
SOUGHT!

Am I perfect?. . .

Am I not?. . .

The proper answer
lies in store,
which ends and mends
this endless,
lifelong,
plucking bore:

That I could switch
from asking either/or,
to get the perfect answer
I couldn’t’ve ever bought:

I CAN BE BOTH!!
(and more!)–
As perfect as I need to be,
while in my
nooks and cavities,
I’ll freely say,
“I’m flawed.”

Having made
this thought-and-feeling motion,
I could jump up and cry
as, these days, is now the custom,
“Shoot, gosh dang!”
and
That’s just
“AWESOME!”–

And I might almost
take that option,
but, while it’s hecka good important,
I cannot fake to think
the revelation
leaves me in quite the state
that makes me stand and stare and gape
in such a way
that qualifies as awe.

But perhaps that is my flaw.

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