Nobody's perfect,
but you come pretty close.
Or if that's too many words,
just stop at four.
("Nobody's perfect but you.")

That's what I said at first,
but then I thought – No.
It's literally true.
Nobody
is
perfect.

Especially you.

Because the more I get to know you,
the more imperfections I find,
and your imperfections
are what makes you ...
... well, you.

And loving you
as I do,
perfect or imperfect,
then I love your imperfections.
They are, after all, what make me feel
you are perfect.

Why can't there be some language
that says what I really want to say?

Ah, but there is one.
There is such a language.
It's Poetry.

Do you write poetry to get it all out
Or to hide it?
Do you  write because  you  want to scream
And shout, or because you cant hide it?

I write when  im lonely
When the demons inside me get roudy
When the drugs  come a'howlin
And my familys looking over  me,
Frowning

I write  when the slits on my wrists  look like the telephone  lines i should be calling
But instead of screaming i just end up scrawling
All my pathetic  overstated  woes
Right here

So  facilitate  me, you strangers
Love this post.  Even though i hate it
Youve no idea the dangers im in
Trying to stay  away from that whole bottle of gin
In the corner

Facilitate  my anxieties
Show me your  all just sheep
Flocking  to  litterature like the  bowls of soup attract the meak

Im not a person here.
None of you really care
Are you even self aware
Do you know That even though its poetry
Theres a person  there?

They called me Pluto from afar, and I,
Nameless and void, embraced the title
With the force of a thousand burning suns,
Each one like the star I loved ever so dearly,
An immense sphere of fire which had me
Helplessly, hopelessly bound by its gravity,
Caught in its orbit from the beginning of time.

They called me Pluto still from further still,
Speaking my name as the orbit of myself
And their water world drove us apart,
And I gladly, worshipfully rejoiced –
I had a name; I was no longer void.
I was distant still, but they called me Pluto,
And I wore my name like regalia,
A crown upon my lifeless skin.

They called me Pluto still as they
Waded further from the cosmic shore
That was their home, sending probes
That touched the regolith of Mars –
There was life, and light, spreading out from Planet Earth,
So I waited, hoping they’d come for me
Sooner rather than later, tomorrow and not two centuries from now.

They called me Pluto even as they stripped me of my name –
I was ‘planet’ no longer,
And I grew colder and bitterer as I spun,
Because I knew things they did not,
Things about the rise and fall of civilizations.
They did not see what I had seen,
They had not been watching
Since the dawn-time.

They called me Pluto,
And they cried my name
As I watched them burn,
The light of the flickering candle in the dark
That had once been humankind
Flaring, more luminous than the sun for one bright, shining moment,
Then fading.

They called me Pluto in the aftermath,
As if I were the God of the underworld,
Guarding their lost souls from my far-off perch,
Shepherding that which could not be led,
But I was not their God, even if I’d once fathomed them as mine.
So here I wait, patient, eternal, void and barren,
For them to leave me lonely when they no longer
Dare to speak my name from the realm
I am the supposed guardian of;
They called me Pluto.