The Perfectionist

His handwriting is a pine forest

If illegible words.

Sharp, pointed letters prick the pages

Like needles of spruce.

His writing desk is an abattoir

Of slaughtered paper.

The carcasses of unfinished works

Hang,

Stained by the seeping blood of his fountain pen.

He does not care.

He is sitting at a writing desk,

In a small, dark room.

With his pen he has painted a picture,

And for once it is

Perfect.