Wendi Gao

I once told her that perfection was the ultimate unattainable goal,

She then told me that it was digging your own funeral.

I responded back, but it’s a life’s goal nonetheless,

She countered, is that what’s most important to you, success?

This question surely took me by surprise, for I never gave to thought,

What was truly important to me, but was it not better than naught?

I went to sleep that night, tallying its virtues against vice,

Turned the issue over and over in my mind, twice and thrice.

But I woke up the next day, without a decision any better.

Still, was it not better to end up as, say, a record setter?

I talked to her again, debating its pros and cons.

She said it was a life of late nights encased in bronze,

Wasted paper: revisions and discarded drafts of drafts.

Criticizing instead of praising a child’s handmade art in crafts,

Or a student missing the big picture, only attending to detail,

Never accepting anything less, or only to consider it a fail.

She told me that while it probably guaranteed a good career,

That I could probably be a doctor or scientist, a pioneer.

It was also not stopping and enjoying the little things in life,

Like that sunset, that flower, the melody of a pauper’s fife.

I thought about what she said, and realized its many downfalls,

Decided that I’d relax this year, and perhaps catch some baseballs.

We finally got our report cards, I looked down at it: straight C’s.

Then lightening struck me, as I finally realized what I was supposed to see,

That perfection and failure were just two extremes on the scale of life,

That carelessness wasn’t acceptable, but neither was the cost of strife.

Doing absolutely nothing still leaves me with a sense of disorientation,

(Although every now and then, I still fall prey to procrastination.)