In what mind does perfection exist?
In the mind that thinks it knows the answers?
Or in the mind that always searches and never becomes stagnant?
In whose thoughts must I structure my words?
In my own or perhaps I should buy the mold from you
So that my mind can become like jello
If these are the words you are looking for
It doesn’t take effort only the feeling of rejection
But it is what I see in your ink blots
Unsavory words flung about in madness
Miscalculate, unworthy, and even insincere
You don’t want the truth, you want your truth
So here are my words flung up in the air
No real thought, and no effort
Let’s see where they land