I’m a puzzle piece with too many sides.
Then again, perhaps I’ve too few.
It never seems to matter much,
Whether the puzzle is old or new.
A dissectologist could not find
For me, that place I fit just right.
My interjambs perplex their mind,
And my blanks too loose or tight.
I’m not one meant to corner,
And the sides are not my place.
Naturally, I disrupt the border
As they never have the space.
“Ugh, a middle piece!” They cry.
Yet a place for me does not exist.
I turn and flip as they press and pry,
Not once successful as they persist.
Oh, How I long to find that perfect fit,
My blanks and jambs no longer wanting.
And the fire in my heart securely lit.
Am I just too obtuse or just merely daunting?
