Imperfection

It is
Of course
Important
No
Imperative
To remember that we are all
Imperfect
We are
Fractured
…Frail
… …Faulty
… … …Fearful
Fragile little things
Glass eggs in a world of iron hands
Soft tongues
Navigating angry teeth
Chapped lips
Holding back words
Both gentle
And cruel
We are, all of us, imperfect moments
Hoping for perfect results
And lives made of uncomfortable compromise
Hoping for uncompromised comforts
With hands stained in yesterday’s tears
And eyes blurred by next year’s sandstorm
Living in that
Ephemeral
…Ethereal
… …Evanescent
… … …Ever-fading dream
Of some distant sun
From last year’s distant summer
Where
If only for a moment
Perfect lived
And breathed
And placed its hand upon our heart
And said
If only once
“Imperfection
Is only our breath
Held in screaming lungs
Waiting for us to
Let go
And remember
That we all take
Perfect breaths
However imperfectly”


Okay…so here’s another free-verse because of reasons A and C from the previous list of reasons that I didn’t give you. I’m going back to rhyming after this one…

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Memories

We sift through sand at times
Fingers looking for grains that either won’t slip
Or else
For grains that we need to see fall away
But days from now
…Weeks from now
… …Years from now
On days where we look back at beaches where we feared to swim
And talk of days we never dared to dream
We remember moons on cloudy nights
And suns when storms are at their worst
We see the sharpened edges dull
And the imperfect moments honed
Until they are so sharp
The only thing they can do is cut
So much nostalgia
…Rose-colored glasses
Memories of lipstick where lips never lived
And words never breathed
But memory is like that
We hold on to the things we want to keep
And we let the other things fall away
So what we’re left with is an
Imperfect r
ecollection
Of imperfect events
Like putting a pretty frame
Around a lonely picture
With burnt edges
Hiding the places that hurt
Saving the ones that didn’t
Keeping the grains
And forsaking the hourglass
Looking so lovingly at those hazy mirrors
For the reflections that never really were
And hoping to see them again
Because that’s what memories are
The hoping for yesterday
In a world filled with nothing but tomorrows


I don’t normally do free-verse. If you follow me, you know this. Anywho…here’s a free-verse poem because…reasons…¬†

Skull

I dusted off the dust and tried to see if there were worms
Beneath a countenance of confidence
While I, behind a mask of domino and actions obstinate
Sat behind a window wearing fog from all the softly whispered words

And picking at the pictures like the old, and peeling paint
Upon the obelisks and oubliettes
I wondered long on Ios, poor Ophelias, and Juliettes
Wearing gloves and monocles, and looking for a name, however faint

I emptied out the emptiness and drank ’til I was full
Using a cup of coded confidence
Where, like the hangman’s daughter, I was not immune to consequence
Resting, you, or maybe I, on wooden pillows over lands of wool

And chasing, like a chalice, filled with all I wished to know
I asked a question of a quandary
You answered like an absent word, “You never did belong to me.
And after all that was, and for the darkness that you hold
You ought to know
You’re gonna leave an ugly skull
After you go.”


I’ve been on a big Acid Bath and Agents of Oblivion kick recently. This poem was inspired by the song The Hangman’s Daughter. Good song.

Echoes

Where was music playing?
Was it nothing but a chime within this music box of mine
I called a heart
I called it dark
I called it anything and everything that never could define
The melody that kept me swaying

On violins and cellos
And on harpsichords and bells and with a symphony that swells
As if an urge
Or else a dirge
I chose to listen to the words like a magician with a spell
Or how I felt when you said hello

Is there music playing
In the shadows of your glow beneath the you I wished to know
Beneath the skin
And all the sin
And all the peaks and all the valleys, all the highs and all the lows
And all the words that you were saying

With your words redacted
Like a line of ink that crossed out all the notes I’ve ever lost
And like a mist
Or else a tryst
I found myself beyond an ocean I should not have sailed across
To hear the music, and the song, and all the wonder in your heart before the symphony of you could be subtracted

 

Ania

There I saw her dancing once
As soft, and calm as autumn dust
My angel in this world of ashes raining from an empty sky

Listening to distant rain
Like songs that never sound the same
As those she heard before when she could smile and her eyes were dry

There she was, with folded wings
Her words and heart a coiled spring
Where joy was like a cigarette, and life a flame, and hope a sigh

There I saw her, looking down
Her tears, they never made a sound
Where rain was all around her, and my arms could never keep her dry

Wondering how I can see
A dance where surely none could be
An answer where she sees forever what? and who? and how? and why?

There she is, as if the moon
Her darkest day is bright as noon
For I, who saw her dancing once, with folded wings, and tears within her eyes

Tome

Take my book of shadows page by page
Numbers on the bottom corner signify the age
A world of cursive letters
Set like links in iron fetters
Left like footprints in the dust of this now long forgotten stage

Set them in the unremembered sun
Where the shoulders colder grow and “shall we?” turns to shun
A home of insulation
And accepted consolation
Where tomorrow is a song that still repeats what we have done

Take my tome of light and see it close
Where embers dance like fairies in a world that no one knows
A world of would’ve, could’ve
Played on instruments of should’ve
Far behind this tattered curtain where it never fully shows

Set it in the pyre, if you will
Let it set for seven years upon your windowsill
Where light can eat the wording
Of the good and leave the hurting
For the tome we fill with shadows is the one that we can never really kill