you've cut up your past
into tiny fragments
for the detailing of a future
that's now your assignment.
something you're figuring out
that isn't so predictable,
when your entire life
all your guesses were ridiculed.
as they fit together
to form something new
you're seeing there's still some bits
that feel like they're missing you.
to amend this situation,
you pick up the phone
and make a few calls
and see how things have been at home.
but nobody's answering
and nobody's calling back
i've figured it's better to live life
than to ever want to lack
love.
it's a feeling
and soon it's healing
but the scars exist
and you can't resist
the facts of life you've realized, you're realizing, and have yet to have this grand realization that nothing's perfect.
*perfection was a theory they never perfected.