You tie me up with your magic marker,
Red correction pen
,
And remind that I'm not,
Right again.

You tell me I'm an oxymoron,
Double negative,
Contradiction to myself, my beliefs and,
Everything you know is,
Human, acceptable and right so,
You correct me until,
I'm simply colored red and,
Your pen runs out of ink.

.

You call me out on my run-on sentences but,
Only because they're telling about life and,
Life just goes on and on because,
Life doesn't know full stops or,
Commas or symmetric errors in the,
Formula.

.

Life, I suppose is,
Flawed.

.

You write the word perfect on yourself a million times,
With your magic marker,
Red correction pen because,
You think this concept is terribly,
Flawed.

.

(The ink leaks onto your hand and you suppose that,
Me, you and it are all flawed,
Perfectly.)

.


NOTES:

1) I like to write about writing and language. It's strange.