The Trap of Trying

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I will always fall for the trap of trying.
Don’t confine me in the prison of perfection.

I want to dance with wobbly steps,
trying to catch up with the rhythm of the song 
and my inhibitions at the same time.

I want to sing in a hoarse sound,
where my notes are all over the place.

I want to make art
where a person also kind of looks like an animal.

I want to make recipes just like my mom does,
fail at them terribly,
and end up creating a version of my own.

It doesn’t have to be delicious.
It just has to exist.
Even if it is not my comfort meal,
it is something that came from my conscience.

I want things to get messy
and then clean it all up,
leaving some spots involuntarily;
a reminder that nothing ever completely goes away.

I want the things I create to carry a piece of me,
a piece that is so innately me
that I never question my own authenticity.

I want my hair to be messy,
just like my thoughts are sometimes.

I want to wear lipstick
even if it is smudged at the corners.

I want to wear kajal,
and then cry a river,
let it smear all over my face.

I want my outer appearance to be so unquestionably me
that no one ever questions me again,
not even me.

Perfection can never capture the true essence,
the tragedy of being human.

All it shows is a facade of symmetry
that is pleasing to the eye.

But it is not my job to please someone else.

My only purpose is to be myself,
to give myself a life,
where I do not have to question whether I am doing things I truly love,
or merely trying to keep up appearances.

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