I once read a book that spoke of the tragedy of the "B" student; intelligent enough to comprehend what brilliance might look like, yet forever denied it.
Understanding is just around the corner;
Correct addition is just a decimal away.
The pants are creased to perfection,
But a protruding pocket with each step does sway.
The bed is mostly made;
the corners are not neat
The socks are clean and nice;
But there’s something icky on the feet.
Working hard to make it perfect,
To help others turn out right
Somehow neat is not enough to spawn
That gasp of sheer delight.
So I might as well curl up quietly
And close my weary eyes in sleep
Hoping that perfection might yet be
In dreamland soft and deep.
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