I stare out fixated
to a point nowhere,
looking for perfection
through the narrow windows
of my imperfect body
I seek out perfection
stepping on my dented bedroom floor,
driving my car with a squeaking belt
using the words of a rented language
which I ‘m still considering if to die in it
or not
I'm hungry for the perfect curves
of a woman's body
caress her soft, smooth skin
with my crooked fingers,
harvest the petals of her silky mouth
with my chapped, rough lips
I crave perfection
from our weathered out relation
dented by the daily storms
of insignificance
I’ve been assigned the task,
through birth,
to carve a perfect pan flute
out of the melodious, colorful wood
of my dreams
with a dull, wretched chisel
I live
to play the discordant notes
of my imperfect keyboard
whose keys are words
and words are whispers,
I aim to reach the land of perfection
with a broken compass
