Perfect In The Imperfection

Safely siphoned behind sequined letters of a writers hands,

I lay void of consequence what I may of the worlds demands.

And what the world may of me as I have forgotten strife,

while the answers of my questions twist as snakes and writhe

away from any tangible heart that could yet express,

those hearts are consumed with burden as they cage duress.

What has succumbed in the end may still stand tolerence,

And is not yet defeated as hope outlives common sense.

Still, I must wonder of the heart condition-

of the things I do of my own volition.

There are choices made in the eye of sorrow,

making myself ignore the past as tomorrow.

But to live such a life is to fail the breath of all!

To live like this is to expect the pain before I even fall.

This expectancy is more painful because it is what the heart administers:

a broken heart left unbroken cannot be pieced or cured

for there is no visible evidence of a right to brokeness,

so nothing is left to learn from that ghosts fingertips.

I have found that it is best to be broken,

and that in this place I have found such a token

that could never be spotted when perfect is all there is.

I have discovered myself where other people miss,

they overlook the beauty in imperfection-

the excitement in an unknown destintation...

But that is who I am, this is where I stand.

Brilliantly sure in what I do not understand.

My beauty is in all the sunrises left unobserved,

in every romance between a lover and the written word.

A word may be unspoken, but that does not make the love any less.

I am perfect for every single broken breath.