making of perfect

i try to draw borders around shapes that ooze out of me

i try to steady my hand, so that the curve looks perfect

i try to look it up in the classics

and learn about how it's got to be done

i practice and practice

till i lose

because my hand aches

now it moves as i wish it to

it makes the shapes i tell it to

i can imitate the classics

but i lose

the piece i make is beautiful

it looks like it is made by a deft hand

but it could be made by any hand

it is not mine, it is not me

i killed my soul so that it would look beautiful

i have to put it in borders for it to look beautiful

the colors try to explode on the paper

but i hurriedly bring my bottles

put the excess in it, lest it comes across as too strong

i draw borders i draw borders

i draw more borders

they have to be black

strong to contain the colors

i wipe the stains, make the borders bigger, thicker, blacker

contain contain contain

contain myself else i overflow

there's one thing in my head, bursting colors,

there's something else on paper

this one particular section i made

it looks different

i was in a flow

worse, it looks like me

i am scared

i see my mother's grin

trying to look at that section on the paper

hoping to look through me

the gaze is piercing through, i see a hole getting made in me

so i erase erase erase

try to cover cover cover

the section that looks like me.

i see the hole filling up the grin turns into a smile

i feel accepted, protected, but also neglected separated

the painting looks perfect

so do i