Imperfect
Inspired by a phrase from Brianna Wiest, in her book: The Pivot Year
I can read them
Again and again,
A thousand times on hand,
They won’t get any better
Or any worse.
They are what they are,
Poems,
Or better said:
I was born with these chains.
So I either touch the paper
And keep the thread,
Accept that who I was is who I am,
Or I bleach it all,
Kill everything,
Make art as pure as souless
And be liked, at best.
I don’t recognise my voice
When I believe they stare,
I can’t give anything
If I still think: “I want to help”.
Be foolish, and expose myself?
And hope that this nauseating fear
Will let me breathe
Now and then?
Or wait.
Re-read, erase.
Do it all again.
Serve coffee, be safe
Until I leave this mortal shell.
I thought that
How bad I wanted this
Was useless to mention
So be brave,
Feel it:
There was a purpose to this imperfection. —
The PDF version here — Print it, save it, share it.
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