Death of Perfectionist

I knew how
to measure up,
knew the only difference
between a red ribbon
and a blue
lay nestled
in the fine print--
a demon of detail,
a level universe
of perfectly spun plates.

You may stare, if you like,
at all these ceramic shatters.
I've grown lazy
and tired,
and fascinated by jagged, crazy,
angled edges.
Put simply--
I no longer care
to try.

Considering my rent unpaid,
I find a busy corner
on which to stake my sign:
"Will-Work-For-A-Place-In-The-Universe."
This, of course,
means I want
a handout.

The odd thing is--
I've already got one.
I exist, take up space,
breath in, breath out.

I am placed.

Could it be
that all along
the secret was not
deserving to live--
was, instead, accepting
the gift of life?