Worrying, deepening wrinkles,
crows feet at my edges of time
cut deeper from winds & storms
into a well worn wall, adobe thick,
mud proofed in the sun
of my distresses.

Storms, find me fretting
over uselessness. Silverware,
china patterns, the right gauge
shot gun, sofa colors & styles,
impenetrable impeccable prayers,
correctly folded towels, right answers
dishes in the dishwasher stacked
in strictest order.

Ah, lost cause self-flagellating
perfectionist, seeking shelter between
idiot temples of ridiculous donkeys
believing themselves to be storming gods.
One ā€“ Rightness, the other ā€“ Correctness.
With their stomping thunder clap hoofs
and lightning they strike at my feet and eyes,
blinding me and forcing me to jittery dance
between their stubborn hatefulness.

Ā© SB Joy, 2021

Ah, perfectionist’s affliction:
What emotion, life event, pain lays under it?
Shame perhaps? What do you think?


2 thoughts on “Crows Feet

  1. No Ho says:

    I was trained and conditioned in self contempt and betrayal modeled by “for your own good” parents.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. SB Joy says:

      šŸ˜ž. Childhood boot camp… then we spend a life time trying to undo.

      Liked by 1 person

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