Goldilocks never ate porridge again,
nor did she sit in wooden chairs,
but she spent the rest of her life
looking for another bed
that was just right—
damn perfection, the way
it always makes the rest of the world
so hard, so cold, so not enough.
August 19, 2016 by Rosemerry
Goldilocks never ate porridge again,
nor did she sit in wooden chairs,
but she spent the rest of her life
looking for another bed
that was just right—
damn perfection, the way
it always makes the rest of the world
so hard, so cold, so not enough.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged goldilocks, perfection, poem, poetry | 4 Comments
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What a perfect poem! Supremely enjoyed it.
ha! Thank you for the nice words. Poor Goldie, never to be happy as my friend wrote me this morning, if she got a sleep number mattress, she¹d probably wake up all night worrying something would change
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I love how the consequences all line up in this poem, right down to that discomfort at the end. And I also like how ambiguous the title is until you get into the poem.
And it’s not just perfection in beds that has us running ourselves ragged, causing us to become perfect anxious wreaks.
Perhaps we say perfection doesn’t exist (even though we know better) in order to avoid this never finding it, after that one time.