I am a work in progress
I am a poem that is nearly finished the ink barely dried, waiting for the final word
A painting waiting for its creator to add the final dab of paint that will make it worthy.
But I know that day will never come.
Because I am a work in progress,
I am the poem that is never published
or the painting that is stowed away. Admired by the person who created it.
I am a work in progress. You are a work in progress. We are a work in progress and that is beautiful.
There’s a dissatisfaction we feel towards a work undone.
A work that is not complete or fully whole.
We search for that which will make us whole.
But only we can give ourselves that gift of wholeness.
Because we are a work in progress and that is beautiful.
There is hope in knowing that the poem changes as we change.
Words can be erased but they are never truly gone. It’s the light outline still present even after we’ve scrubbed with eraser across the page, trying to rid it of our mistakes.
A finished poem is whole because it didn’t just appear. It needed to be worked on, again and again. Night after night or in the early hours of the day. It was created with care and love for every word we know matters.
I can imagine that’s what it is like to create myself. An unfinished poem, waiting for the gentle hands of a poet to shape its purpose from pen and paper into something beautiful
I am a work in progress, always