For us, life holds;
countless enigmas,
uncertainty of existence,
certain exceptions,
bulks of expectations,
improbable concoctions,
perfect nothingness,
imperfect pains,
high level dreams.
But,
don't you think!
Brevity of human life,
ephemeral stay in this world,
is more simple and lucid.
Simplicity and Lucidity,
is all that life can give.

I only became free
when I lost my sense of grammar
when I forgot how to punctuate
and I didn't follow a rhyme scheme.
I let the letters place themselves
and the words chose themselves
the poetry wrote itself
problems solved themselves
my heart healed itself

I became free when I finally learned
that the poetry is not in perfection
but in the broken words that lie on the page
delivered by my ink-stained hands
from a broken soul and an imperfect heart.
I was only free when I realised
that the broken and imperfect words
made up the perfect poem.
Made up the perfect me.