To my dear poems,
Although you're close to me, I will no longer strive for perfection with you
For I believe the raw emotions and imperfections make you beautiful and I am too in love with your flaws
The scraps of paper with scribbled words
Coffee stained napkins where sudden inspiration hit
Temporary words on palms
And unlike mine, I love your scars
You let my heart speak without a filter and the more perfection I force upon you by replacing words and rewording my pain,
it becomes nothing more than a never ending game,
making me obsessed about your appearance, I end up with useless words that make not a difference.
So instead of giving you hours, I will give you each a piece of myself and I know it will remain safe with you.
From your imperfect writer