GETTING IT RIGHT?

The scale tips, always just a hair, Away from balance, tipped by air. I strive and strain, I bend and mold, A story left forever untold.

Each effort launched, a hopeful flight, Descends too soon in fading light. The measured praise, a whispered breeze, Lost in the rustling of the trees.

I polish bright, I smooth the edge, But flaws remain, a silent pledge That imperfection dwells within, A losing battle I can’t win.

The whispered doubt, a constant hum, “Not quite enough,” it seems to come From every glance, each judging eye, Beneath a vast and empty sky.
7
I pour my heart, I give my all, And watch it crumble, watch it fall. The standard set, a distant star, Forever just a little far.

This heavy cloak of “almost there,” A burden that I have to bear. This aching sense, this hollow plea, That something more is asked of me.
And in the quiet, late at night, The feeling burns, a lonely light. That all I do, though hard and true, Will never quite break through.