Flawed Perfection

Every once in a while, I'm asked the question:

Hey Ben, why don't you have a religion?

Of course, a quick response of "none of youre business" follows

But why? Because I see flaws. Flaws in the seas and the sky

Earth and everything on it. 

How then, can god be perfect? All his subjects are cracked

broken pottery that couldn't stand the test of time

Can't be filled, now spills

out in the open for everyone to see

be mocked and fucked over for its imperfections. 

But if, lets say, lets say

Whichever religion is real.

God or gods, whichever you choose

then isn't it true that we were made

the exact way we were meant to be?

In some kind of dramatic irony

If we were all perfect we'd be so boring

That cracked pottery now sealed

factory line, no difference from any other in its time

I'm thinking now these cracks are character 

each jagged edge a twist in the story of my life

your life, a different pot, different cracks

now seen as a piece of art, no piece of junk 

could be this beautiful. 

When people ask why I don't have a religion 

I tell them "None of your business"

But I always have that hope

I cling to when I see these flaws

a hope that even if there is no God

We still have our own broken pottery

a scratched record, a cut body,

a hurting soul

our own flawed perfection. 

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

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