Excellence can speak so fluently.
Hearing perfected poetry from promising poets.
I had aimed to win before viewing the warzone.
My ammo consisted of only this wrinkled sheet filled with amateur words.
I didn’t know I’d battle against such elite warriors.
Doubt converts into reality.
Reality is that defeat awaits me.
I quickly crumpled up this paper.
Self labeling my skills trash,
the only thing I’m aiming for now is the garbage can.
As I progress my mind is drawn back into past portraits.
Painting all the times I spent writing this.
Sketching all the times I spent reciting this.
Framing all the smiles my teammates engraved in it.
Not because of its quality, but because my heart created it.
I forgot that this 'amateur poem' is a pro at representing me.
Regardless of the number of points it receives it won’t count.
Only the master can decide when its art is a masterpiece.
Confidence reaches out and uncrumples this paper.
My name is called to perform.
As the stage echo's this poem,
I learned how perfection is born.
Perfection is not born perfect.
So I’ll keep raising my poems towards it.
Nine Tails
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/crumpled-papers/
