Words mean a lot, though miss used a lot
And so I thought why not, type-out my thoughts
At the age of twenty, I fought a lot and I lost
Submitted to reality, thanks to life for this munity
I quarrel with this world to find my golden state, but
Even in the golden age, this imperfect being still remains
Yes I grow with age, learn from my mistakes
Expelling all the weeds, growing and suffocating this angelic
Creation
So when I wake-up,
stare at mirror, moisture my skin with perfumed lotion
With the attempt to adorn this temple...
Close to Goodness yet far from purity
at times I may be white, till my robe is  painted with mud
I'm only human, and yes I fall, but get back up
This life is rough, behind the smiles and all the love
Remain deep scars, this life is tough, but I still laugh
Endure the harsh times, and all the storms
If I be iron this structure would be corroded
Filled with rust, burying, who I really am All my imperfections, lust lack of trust, sometimes lack of love, and all the scars can taint my soul

Flawless Imperfectionist

Post cards cannot build a body
it took me too long to realize this
I thought I could write love letters and somehow the words would come off the page and make me real again
but you cannot build a body with stationary seasoned by my perfume alone

it took over 14 almost near the edge could have should have been but weren't breakups
for me to realize her eyes did not shine galaxies for me anymore
that when she stared at me she no longer saw an imperfectionist's masterpiece
the replication of her own self, a carbon copy printed from too much time spent together

ink fused molecules made fingerprints through my fingertips,
but instead of a distinctly swirled thumbprint,
I saw only an oval shaped splotch that was supposed to represent me,
like I just slit myself open and let ink pour from my veins,
let me tell you that does not make you anymore real than the hypnotic pattern spelled out on those letters

I finally realized that as much as I loved her, I love myself more

that those galaxies that went darker than her pupils dimmed out because she could not find the strength to love me anymore
that these calloused hands of mine could no longer intertwine with hers
because my anxiety caused them to tremble far too much for her liking,
that when I offered my palms up to her one last time she cast them aside and insisted she could write scrawling calligraphy from her own ink

when I closed my eyes, I couldn’t see her quill rowing waves on blank paper,
I only saw her tipping over the well of black tar onto my own,
and every time I try and purge the shimmering oil from my page,
I only end up past my elbows in her mess

for hours, I scrub and scratch at the skin on my arms hoping that somehow I can remove her from my body,
but all my attempts end in vain, because she’s made her way into my veins,
and I cannot let her out
because every time I try and write her off,
all that comes out of me is tainted ink.

English is not my native,
And she is not the mother of my tongue-
Even though I wish she could.
Yet I want to become its perfect scribe-
One who can bend and twist the heart out,
Boldly from an altitude compared to Victoria Falls.
My grandpa could be my pioneer-
I crown him as the magician of all languages,
He tossed cerumen, virility, and a she-goat peeing.
So I suffer from this acute metabolism,
That restricts me to imagine beyond bra-*****-
You can call me an imperfectionist and not a perfect scribe

i am fine
as heaven..
it's spelt upon my bones
with the safest flesh upon em
i feel it gazing into the mirror
then i whisper my kisses
as i adore and marvel..
....."this is perfected.."

the imperfectionist is you
look at what you've done

you broke me so well
i see the pieces in my eyes
weighing from my beaten heart
as i comfort my left cheek
with my right palm..
i want to write about you
..like my ego were yours

feelings rise above the surface
bubbling up into my throat
sweet nothings form in my brain
my lips ache for yours
my heart beats fast
and the world spins slowly
i can't help but look at you
eyes like oceans
i could drown
an imperfectionist's perfect smile
when i see you

We say we don't want it
Don't covet it,
Lust for it
Wish upon stars
For a chance to discover it
But, I feel safe
In presuming
You do
At least once a daydream
If it were to come true
How they'd look on you with
Admiration and awe
Adulation to make
Imperfectionist flaw
Would be nice, and quite right
About time
Overdue
To shine bright in a spotlight
Persona eclipsed
Amidst fortune and fame's
Tenebrous ego tryst

The man sits stationary in his favorite chair
While children are adrift in their dainty dreams
Fire spits, crackles, and warms the room
One that is far colder than it seems
Much like shimmering snowflakes fluttering down
Memories fall from his clouded mind
Santa should be half past San Francisco by now
Leaving crumbs and subtle grace behind
The man calls himself an imperfectionist
Because flaws are the greatest gift of all
But soon, carols will fade back into their music box
Only regret will deck these halls
Under a Christmas tree as green as his envy
Presents sit wrapped as tightly as his lips
Reindeer could be sailing across winter skies
But he's obscured by his mind's eclipse
There's no more bliss in the land of wonder
There's no more repeating of sounding joy
The man fades into uneasy Christmas slumber
So ends yet another year, as a misfit toy

Attributes of emptiness-
a void we seldom couldn't avoid,
that which I couldn't afford
I'se a glorious imperfectionist,
and how perfect is that in this imperfect world
Is it a goal to compare a life of a successful self made,
to one who could never afford a maid

Smiles all fading in the world's only true green:
"the grass is greener on the other side,"
But I know it hides the many weeds, residing inside
as one so in love, and blindly in love for their bribe
Married to their empty pocket,-  a loyal bride

Do not speak loosely of your words, you'll be loose for change
To work so well with others; it's all the company
of people's similar struggles

The poor will work for the rich, the rich are poor
to them in return. It's just the will of the world

The Imperfectionist looked out of a window. Actually, he looked at the window. Within it's frame a woman appeared. Do I fit, she said. Fit in as you like, he said. But I would prefer you cut some corners. You want corners? How about top left? Bottom right, whatever. Hey, you just want me out of the picture.
That would be picture perfect.

The Imperfectionist sat down and turned on his tv. He concentrated on the sideground images. A war correspondent appeared on the screen. Around him, desert debris, military wrecks, abandoned bodies. Interactive question: what's that rock behind you? Interactive answer: I refer you to the company geologist.  Q: could you do you commentary on the left side of the screen? A: and step onto a roadside bomb? Now that's a perfect scenario.

The Imperfectionist was tired of framed images. He stepped outside and moved like a camera. Straight ahead a young girl approached, eyes glued to her phone. Left of her, a scooter moved onto the sidewalk. Right of her, two women loudly discussed a daughter's dental problems. Above her, a drone whirred. Below her, the pavement showed it's beautiful cracks. Skewz me, I'm looking for... he said. She looked up the address. It's right here, sir. He slapped his forehead. Oh no, that's a perfect disappointment.