"imperfects" poems
In the streets I am not wanted
In this nation I am not wanted
In the streets terror takes over
In the nation arguments are heard
Separating colored from white
Separating imperfects from perfects
Segregation is a way of life
Racism is a daily routine
Equal rights isn’t in our vocabulary
Freedom for colored isn’t thought of
Stereotyping, judging, terrorizing
Where is my freedom I’ve longed for?
Where is my holy land?
Where is my safe place?
The north is helping,
But is it enough?
I feel a change coming
The change in the nation
Speaks of freedom and
Ends segregation
It will make me
Feel wanted in the streets
Feel wanted in the nation
But for now I feel as if I’m
Not wanted here
My skin may be different,
But I have a heart and
I am still a human being
Created by our Holy Father
So where is my freedom?
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 4:12 AM UTC
Why stay with the Dragon,
With those horns,
Those imperfects,
And the pain of the fire?
Why not go be with a Princess,
With that gorgeous hair,
Those eyes,
And the gentleness of a maiden?
Perhaps,
You,
My dear Knight,
Are used to those horns,
The imperfections,
And what abusive nature?
But why?
Why not just run until the Dragon is far behind you,
To far to return,
Far enough that you cannot hear her weeping?
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 11:28 AM UTC
you have made your differences.
you have painted your sky blue
(without the undercoat)
you have snuggled up with stars in bed
(knife hidden under the pillow)
and cooed and giggled all cute-like.
now you come home all cold and silver.
you cast me a moon gaze,
nothing more,
and use your words
and your jaunty movements,
like each joint is a mechanical hinge.
i still think you’re beautiful.
no matter how slippery and wet you get
(in the worst and best of ways)
no matter how much your smile stretches
past your teeth and no matter
how many times i want to put my hand
under the pillow. i still think you’re beautiful.
i don’t think you’re perfect
because i have seen your imperfections
the way your dapples fall against the grain
the way you talk and the way your words
are wrong so very often.
but your imperfects make you so much more human,
and so much more beautiful.
if i die tomorrow just know this.
just know that i was sick of your
starlight manipulations and the way you
twisted silver light (all wrong
and reflective).
but despite this, please know
that i very almost fell for you.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 7:03 AM UTC
So,
Here it all is.
Laid out all on this table.
This metaphorical table.
I'm clingy,
but somedays I'm no where to be found.
I'm emotional,
but somedays you'll think I absolutely have no soul.
I'm real,
but somedays my head is so far in the heavens even God can't push me down.
I love,
but I hold back so much.
I smile,
but my eyes can always cry.
See.
That's the thing.
You haven't even met me yet,
and I know you'll turn and run away.
That's the thing.
It's the little things.
The little,
flaws.
Imperfects...
I'm full of them.
See.
That's the thing.
The little things,
are the big things.
So in the end,
you won't even give me a chance.
That's the thing.
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 8:45 PM UTC
his is my conception flawed
most Patina proned
the imperfects,
they
fragment
become
at its surface
wanting
life's reasons
cracks
chaffe
of this
creation and eternal question
the layers meaningless therein
the death of sunlight
setting perfected
another day
to feed tomorrows imagination
much
displayed in each rotten liars face
covered over some past
smothering and building above
and fragrant dreams
should fuel brashness misdirected
purpose that
for all it is
be it found to be lacking
it bears the knowledge gap
famed no known muse
or compostion worthy
notedly proportional whites and
other shades, emotionless
calming,
the sediment settles
to touch the muddy surface
consideringly well intended
another day,
another to shine
less than
perfect
is
and those
that demand
a concept placed uncertain
determined and truthfully in the rught
hopefully atleast as to face
forced gazes
accusatiions
a reflection
my face
that
looks back
upon one
uwanted.
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 6:49 AM UTC
“Listen”
Ticks the clock.
“I am perfect, pure, and patient.”
“Listen”
“And perfection, be on time.”
The clock
Is perfect.
It is simply the purest thing in this room of imperfects.
The broken frame on the wall,
That longs for a picture of a loving family or couple.
The fire pit,
Choked in smoke and charcoal.
The clock,
Perfect
Ticking into everlasting eternity, endless in the rhythm.
“Listen”
“And perfection, be on time.”
The door,
Leaning on two hinges,
Moans and opens.
The clock ticks on.
A woman walks inside,
And lay down in the middle of the rundown, ruined room.
That is perfect itself.
The clock ticks on.
“Listen to meeeeeee…”
The woman ignores.
“Listen to meeeeeee…I am perfect”
The woman ignores again, and looks around the room.
Admiring all of the imperfections.
The clock, out of anger, ticks furiously,
And falls.
“Listen” ticks the clock, for the last time.
“And perfection, be on time...I-I...I am perfect.”
Even those so perfect,
Can fall and break.
Even those so perfect
Should “Listen”
“And perfection, will be on time.”
The woman lay peacefully in this room of imperfection and broken pieces.
And it is perfect.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 2:54 PM UTC
You'll find there's a family of friends living here,
a small group of minds, and hearts;
With some of us clever and some of us not,
At times you can't tell us apart.
There's one who is cranky, and one who is shy,
And one who is really uncouth;
And just when you think you have discovered who's who,
You'll really uncover the truth.
The truth that we're all just a little of each,
A group of imperfects are we
And sometimes I might criticize them to you,
But don't ever knock them to me.
'Cause the one thing that ties us together for life-
no matter how far we're apart,
Is love for each other, a family of friends
A small group of minds, and of hearts.
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 5:51 AM UTC