Note: First in a series, if I remember to make a series.
We cannot demand perfection of others, because we are never truly perfect ourselves.
Dear little girl, so painfully precise,
In your sharp red shoes you will dance, so nice.
You etch lines in perfectly-ruled fashion,
And exacting rules govern your passion.
Your eyes grow fierce with worries and woes.
You keep all the other dolls on their toes.
You are sharp to every little detail,
And you will not stop until, without fail,
Your world meets standards of exquisite grace,
Not a line, curve, or hair out of its place.
In your blood-red shoes you will dance through life;
Your perfectionism a sharpened knife.
And when your dancers cry “Rest!”–you will shout
“Again!” till they’re perfect…or all danced out.