Work in Progress

I sit at my desk
tracing the fabricated wood grain
with my finger tip
while my computer sits open
with Notepad waiting,
longing for me to spill
my soul onto it.
I take a deep breath
and my fingers take their
familiar places on the keyboard.
As I press the keys down quickly
it sounds as though rain is
tapping at my window.
The light from my desk lamp
creates a glare on the screen
that makes it hard for me
to see what I’m typing.
But I know where my fingers
are landing and when I need
to hit backspace.
A letter, word,
paragraph at most.

If only life’s little mistakes
were so easy to fix.
Cut here and paste there.
Proofread and edit before completion.
Then I might feel more accomplished,
like a better person whose
only flaws are spending
too much money and
taking too many vacations.
But what makes a person without flaws?
Even the best art pieces
contain a few small imperfections.
Perfection to me
is mediocre for most.
And so I continue to type
as the light illuminating the screen
begins to strain my eyes.
I’ve come to realize
the joy in writing is not in the outcome
but the process in which you get there;
just as in life.