My Limited Perfection

In rhyme, I’m a perfectionist;

In other things, I’m not.

You’d think I’d treat all things the same

But rhyme is what I’ve got.

 

For patience is a virtue which

I really don’t possess.

I’ll rush though projects though results

Will surely not impress.

 

My sewing comes out crooked

And my seams don’t seem to match.

My baking skill are mediocre,

Though I bake from scratch.

 

You’d never want me as your chef;

I clean, but things don’t shine

And wrapping gifts has never been

A special skill of mine.

 

My ironing leaves creases

And technology’s a bane.

My plants all droop and getting rid

Of clutter is a pain.

 

But when I write, I’ll work each line

Until the rhyme’s in sync.

My pencil and eraser let me

Change things as I think.

 

Some people are obsessive

‘Bout so much, and all the time

While as for me, that just applies

To writing poems in rhyme.