I am such a perfectionist, and such a do-er (my sisters would call me an overachiever) that I forget to let myself and my work just be. I convince myself I am not doing enough, or I am not doing well enough. The merry-go-round in my brain just can’t let it rest. I’m either a terrible writer or I’m not giving my best. That kind of self-condemnation is destructive. And paralyzing.
What lands do separate –Nay, what words, indeed!For I know not that whichCan bridge the distance ‘tween. Stumbling tongues and soulsTwined round a similar reluctanceShadowed smiles and twinned sadnessReminiscence is a familiar friend Nostalgia trips along the lanes of soulShaking loose long-cherished joysAnd oft-mourned loss – I miss you!Must suffered silence be our cost? Hand clutch on guilty heartWhen fellowship is sunderedAnd I’m the one to blameFond farewells assuage nothing