I realized long ago, that I wasn’t perfect.
I learned that, in the third grade,
where my teacher pointed out
all my childish faults and then publicized them.
Notes to my parents, outlining my faults,
just to make sure they knew of my deficiencies.
She sought to leave no doubt in their minds,
and also leave no doubt in mine.
I wasn’t perfect and therefore a loser,
not meant for anything special,
yet here I sit, writing about her,
and remembering the pain I felt,
of feeling less than perfect,
of being a complete dolt,
incapable of learning and so I quit,
I quit trying to please and hid in a hole,
until one day I saw the sun,
and in its light hope.
I’m not perfect, that I know,
but I am special in my own way.
Now I write, poetry and verse,
delving into the mystery,
my third grade teacher dismissed.