Less perfect. More practice

Between preparations and conversations I slip away to tell you how I really feel. Less perfect more practice, these wanton rehearsals of an ambition I chase when I am bored.

I remember joking about thin veneers and you sneered that they weren't that thin. That every body knew.

So raw that it was bloody.
A butchers shop.

My vivisection complete and reports all written. Detailed painfully in black and white. Drained of colour and movement and sound. Yet captured. Penned in.

Some would say caged.