I pick up my pen,
and I start to write.
The words do not fit
quite perfectly right.
A smudge on the paper,
a line going wrong,
a rhythm that trips
in the middle of song.
But I am a human,
not made of machine.
I mix up my words,
and I say what I mean.
My lines have some cracks,
my letters may bend,
but each little flaw
is a helper, a friend.
I stumble, I learn,
I try and I test.
My messy, true self
is always my best.
So look at my pages,
the dark and the bright.
I am only human,
imperfectly right.