Hard is a life you feel out of place in
You slide into the spaces but there are gaps along the edges
You almost fit
You've mastered the art of almost
You are the man behind the camera
Inspecting your life and trying to get the perfect shot
Commanding the things that don't fit against the backdrop of all your insecurities
Not too fast
To the humans of 2017,
The date is January 5th, 3017.
The empty roads fill with hover cars and the streets buzz with noise.
It's a cold day. But everyone is warm. With their coat heaters, of course.
Some people are even wearing t-shirts and shorts.
The sky, blue and crystal,
is overloaded with Flyers and Sky-Cars. People are roaming on the sky streets.
They don't rush because they're late to work, they don't carry heavy suitcases- all they need is that one little wristband on their right forearm.
Humans are perfect now.
None is stronger than other, none is more handsome then other, none is more smarter than other. They share the same amount of money. Everybody is equal.
This is the Happy City. Not a single fight has happened. Everyone is kind. They do not lie, thief, fight, or kill. Not even one commotion happens.
Everything is perfect. Equal. Even.
But that's not what I think.
Humans shouldn't be perfect. We shouldn't have been.
Humans are a creature that thinks, fights, sacrifice, lie, trust, betray, and make choices. That's what humans are like. That's what they're suppose to be.
That disgusting red wristband makes the decision for us. Or at least, them. It tells them what to wear, eat, do, and even decides your mate. We are not humans anymore. We are not perfect.
These people here are so simple. There is no lesson learned, no school or government. Everybody just has a joyful life.
But no! I disagree! We humans should learn lessons, decide good and evil- we must make mistakes! We also must be evil sometimes! That is what makes us human. Those are our characteristics that prove us human.
Dear fellows, it is hell here.
We are not humans anymore. We have become slaves of perfection.
And these humans that are not humans anymore.
I saw in you every possible potential. Every early warm meal by the patio—with every minute the flitted sounds of a subtle breeze— touching by us like a touch-less kiss. I saw every grit and wit there was in you like every other—but it was real and colorful and filled with the charm that every temptation could not compare. And there would be, these languid notes, as you lean to my left, and the view panning afar —and that so seemed— to make life as simple and perfect so more.
When we're together
It's like escaping to a magical land
Locked in a stuffy room
Our desires reigned recklessly free
Keeping away the harsh realities of our lives
Passionately intertwined as one
In each others own madness
Your fingers are minx like
Dancing across the fretboard with thoughtless grace
Strumming your thoughts through our kisses
With a sharp twinkle in those quiet brown eyes
Every song feels like reliving an old memory
One you plucked fresh from my soul
I love the way cigarettes rest on your lips
A classic addition some would say
But in it I see the self made man you are
The way your fingers elegantly roll tobacco
Baffles my clumsy mind
Could a mortal be so beautifully designed?
A very confusing yet consuming word
Everybody wants to be perfect
Yet they don't know what it means
Nobody is Perfect
Nobody has ever been perfect
Sure people can think you're perfect
But you can't be perfect to every single person
There are different images of perfect
Every single person strives to be their image of perfect
But I know I don't
I know that I can never achieve that goal
So I strive to be original
Step by step,
With a gorgeous plié,
Kick some pep
Into a battement jeté.
A toy brought to life
During a winter dream,
Wining a mice fight,
Becoming king and queen.
Graceful and white,
Perfection is seized,
A swan's flight,
Applause from the pleased.
All these to treasure,
To hope for, but first
Have the right measures
And break the weight curse.
Do not eat much
And practice all day,
Have the right touch,
Get that perfect cambré.
Pointe for pain
And chukkers for luck,
Just hide those blood stains
And redefine pluck
When all the joints hurt
And toes can't be touched,
When all one has heard
Is Tchaikovsky's crutch...
So proceed and endure,
Feel pain and relief,
Prokofiev's pitch contour
To be ones only belief.
Let all this be forgotten
When the curtains rise
And show all this works gotten
Perfection for a prize.