I used to be perfect,
but now I am not;
I have fallen off the mantel, the wagon, the pedestal;
It is hard to maintain a pretty pretense,
projecting such a perfect pile of poop all the time;
I confess I am imperfect—
past, present, future.
The last time I tried to be perfect,
I nearly disappeared;
I started chipping away
all the imperfect pieces of myself,
until there was hardly any “me” left—
which would not have been the perfect thing to do.
I had a false notion of perfection—
based on other people’s perceptions.
Perfect people are so tense,
in the most past-perfect-tense-way.
most of them got nailed to a pole,
or tarred and feathered,
or shot by a madman,
on a fateful day;
it all makes no sense
to be burned at the stake,
or martyred in some other horrible way,
for being so perfect;
because, as they say:
only the good die young.
I prefer to be
just imperfect me:
a little quirky perhaps. . .
unique. . .
the whole package. . .
unstrung.
©Knightwriter, Sept. 10, 2013
