So perfect on the outside
Unblemished
Façades
That's how we survive

From far away we look so
So perfect
Unblemished
Nothing ever comes between us

Until you see us at home
So petty
Our bickering
Anything could come between us

What is a life,
with no fail?
It is a ship
That cannot sail

What is a life,
with no pain?
It is a life
That has no gain

What is a life,
with no risk?
It is a body
That's frail and weak

What is a life,
where no one's ill?
It is a life
You cannot feel

Let's pretend that I'm perfect
That I'm beautiful
That I'm happy
Let's pretend that I don't cry
In the shower late at night
That I'm not lonely
That I'm not scared
Let's pretend that I'm not broken
That I don't hate everything
That everything isn't always my fault
Let's pretend
That everything will be ok

Glimpses, whiffs, and shadows
But suffice to know, fully assured
Even to wager all, life and more
And to forego all, even to fast
For Truth does not mock
And the fullness' unimaginable
But an unseen certain fulfillment;
Awakened is before the dawn
A lightening and not the light
In anticipation and excitement
In joyous fear, with trembling steps
Approach the glowing chasm
In angelic choruses and many suns
Lifted off the ground on many wings
Higher and vaster the sight
Intoxicating the fragrant scent
Fearsomeness in shadows unveiled;
And the chasm's edge is further yet
For even the Perfect waits for All
His wounds unhealed a promise
Of Oneness only when All is One.

a thousand options or two
are all but irrelevant
I need no choices but One:
of my arbitrary will
created perfectly, in
wisdom and potent power
that if not shall be and is
thus truth for it is thereof;
gladly I enslaved myself
to my very own then be
enticed and just as enslaved
to choices purportedly
for my good—or make my foes
cry—if believed piously
but unseen its that same One
of strange self serving powers
and their arbitrary wills
and truths in a post truth world;
alas we totally lack
knowledge, fed and believed lies
of freedom, choosing by will
to be proud and gladly slaved.

I am a poem in motion, in itself-
I strike an empty canvas; drawing out inspiration from
the library of experiences sitting on a majestic shelf,
“what picture shall I craft,” to showcase an unheard story,
an unsung song- “and what lines shall I once again cross”

Poetry has no bounds;- its never short of words,
its expression is wild; tamed by the artist’s pen- my sword
to fight against the marching violence in my mind.
My words- are all a part of me; they separate me from the
entire world, as I watch everything unfold into the paper
where I write down my thoughts.

[the poet-
is an outsider; a broken writer, who gets his fix from
his literature art. It’s an addiction, and a cure to my everything-
yet it’s still nothing. It is here, it is there, it is everywhere; still
it comes from nowhere.

[a poem-
are her words tender, but also so raw. They are the length of her
elegant body, they are short of breath- she is my answer, she is
my many questions, she’s a truth made out of my lies. She is
everything to my nothing

No poem is a mistake; every poem is perfect-
written by imperfect people.