I sat, submissively. You stood, towering. You, the PhD. Me the struggling artist. My thumbnail kept picking at the edge of the nail on my index finger. My writing hand index finger. Odd. You told me my poem was "okay," but it was not perfect. So what, then, it was imperfect? Faulty? Flawed? Defective? Unsound? …


I thought I could hide my face; that outward declaration of what I am thinking, or who I truly am inside. I stand at the bathroom mirror, not thrilled to catch my eye. See those two vertical lines between my eyes? This is an indicator of just how hard I am on myself. I have …


Friend, that person who, despite what it costs them, will take Responsibility for your well-being by Insisting that you prepare, plan, and contemplate Every move you're going to make before you dash off, Neglecting to look for the unexpected Dilemmas that wait along the road. Steven Barto ©2016

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