by Erika McLitus
It seems like everything I set out to write
Points out the flaws I see
Through my own flawed sight.
Even this, which should be a celebration…
I can’t help but want to criticize and analyze,
until it’s not a thanksgiving, but a degradation.
I can’t just think of my gratitude,
I am compelled to kill it with reasons,
until my words are tainted with a poisonous attitude.
I wish I knew how to explain
what I do feel, that bliss that exists
before my lips render the pure profane.
