In a bitter chiselling winter gust,
Dusty flecks of snow whirl about in the air around me,
Enveloping my figure in a spiral of white,
While I wait impatiently for my bus to appear on the horizon.
Bored and chilled to the bone,
I scrape up a rough pile of greyed snow,
Delicately shape it with my clunky boots,
Smoothly rounding out the sides into a fat cylinder, and
Gently patting down on soft surface until it’s nice and flat.
Still there is a tiny chink at the edge where loose snow chipped off.
Try as I might, I cannot block up the tedious gap.
It's almost perfect - just with one small flaw.
Just like me.
Me, the perfectionist, who likes, wants, needs everything to be absolutely perfect.
Me, the perfectionist, who will not, cannot, break this never-ending cycle.
Me, who, despite my perfectionism in my work, is not perfect in life.
Me, whose one rather large flaw is perfectionism itself -
Did someone craft me as did I the snow castle?
Did they try to perfect me as I tried to?
Were they satisfied with me,
Even with my many flaws?
Will you see me,
excellent, .. using the snowball as an extended metaphor, well done... the description is head on and i could picture every detail you wished to portray in the scene... The transition from the scene description to giving yourself up as such snowball is amazing, quite the delicacy when dealing with an inanimate object and refering to oneself... but you did it nicely and wholely.... the beginning is captivating and the end, breath taking, 'Accept me? ' is just the perfect ending for a wondeful poem...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem
It's a hard thing to be a perfectionist. I'm actually kind of the opposite, I have a really hard time organizing and my room and backpack is a mess. Just try to love yourself and fight your problems head on. If you need someone to talk to I'm here because I know what it's like to not be accepted (last lines of your poems) . This poem was truthful and passionate. Keep writing!