This poem speaks to much of what I’ve been feeling lately: perfection is impossible.
Super-stressful-spring-semester-senior-year are you over yet??
by Kilian McDonnell
I have had it with perfection.
I have packed my bags, I am out of here. Gone.
As certain as rain will make you wet, perfection will do you in.
It droppeth not as dew upon the summer grass to give liberty and green joy.
Perfection straineth out the quality of mercy, withers rapture at its birth.
Before the battle is half begun, cold probity thinks it can’t be won, concedes the war.
I’ve handed in my notice, given back my keys, signed my severance check, I quit.
Hints I could have taken:
Even the perfect chiseled form of Michelangelo’s radiant David squints
the Venus de Milo has no arms,
the Liberty Bell is cracked.
This is clearly not perfect (and it’s still great and remarkable), why should I try to be?!