You want to write me
into your lines,
but I refuse to rhyme.
You want to mold me
out of clay,
but I will not yield.
You want to sketch me
in thick, charcoal strokes,
but my form remains elusive.
You are a perfectionist,
but I am far from perfect.
You are a charmer,
but I won’t be charmed.
You are an artist,
but I am already a work of art.
February 7, 2017