The Perfect Poem


I have been searching, in agony, for the perfect poem.
A poem that says it all — all my sorrows, all my joys.
The words that paint the picture
None but my heart can see.
A poem that lives, that reaches, beyond what I can.

But I never seem to see, the destination of my journey.
Always out of reach, always out of touch.
I extend my hand only to catch empty feathers.
The words I cast, the paint that drops,
Everything falls into the wrong spot.

But can you see, my toilsome search,
For that of which I may never uncover.
To rip open my heart for the world to see.
Yet what would it see? My tears, my laughter?
The words time has taken away —
Or what it has failed to steal?

Perhaps this journey,
This endless, beautiful journey, is my poem.
My struggles the words, my love the paint,
Perfection woven only in imperfection.
My tainted life, my perfect poem.

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