(Today's prompt was to write a self-portrait. The title, which suggests a sense of love, came after the words, which hardly feel like love. But perhaps in this draft there lurks some kind of love.)
Something's bothering me, getting under my skin.
Not sure what.
I've been bitten by a need for perfection,
when all I want to do is create.
Sunrises promise a chance to re-start,
to be rebirthed,
to begin all over again,
to renew.
Days start with a space of rest, with sunshine, with coffee,
a resolve to make every minute matter.
The grind withers the resolve.
Time is frittered away.
Bright-eyes grow dim,
bushy tails wilt.
And suddenly it's sunset,
and dark, and time to get dinner together
and then too late again.
I look back with a sense of failure.
What went wrong?
Why couldn't I do what I said I would?
I feel myself wondering when the sun will come out,
if the next will be better.
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