perfect

i am not perfect,
i am just nice,
whose voice is heard,
sometimes dimmed,
and then things get their way.

i am not perfect,
i am just confused,
whose mind wanders,
sometimes to dead ends,
and then answers arrive.

i am not perfect,
i am just sad.
whose tears swell,
sometimes into a puddle,
and then it dries up and away.

i am not perfect,
i am just undecided,
whose questions unanswered,
sometimes contradicting,
and then like a dream it slips away.

i am not perfect,
i am just myself,
whose self always adjusts,
sometimes too much,
and then it goes back to square one.

i am not perfect,
but let not this nightmare linger,
i am still, after all,
yours.

the saddest cloud.

the saddest cloud stays at the side of the skies,
keeping it away from the fluffy, gleeful gay ones,
in fear of the gloom it may bring,
and the tears it swells on,
on this young sunny day.

a foal hops alone in the meadow,
casting itself away from the strong, growing ones,
in fear of the shame it may bring,
and the speed it lacks of,
for he has only but three legs.

a cracked vase sits alone in the attic,
being put away from the glimmering crystal ones,
in fear of the disgust it may bring,
and the shine it barely has left,
for it  puts a cloak upon those who sees the rest.

a boy walks by himself,
slower than the rest, at times faster,
in fear of the truth it may unleash,
and the laughter he once had along,
in  a day so slow, times ticks faster.

oh how this day would end,
lifting all like a feather in a wind,
up and away.

he.

far across the deepest blue,
under great waves of force,
swirling sea gulls and blue tunas,
lies a boat without a row,
and he stands there.

deep inside the darkest caves,
under scary webs of silk,
creeping spiders and black scorpions,
sits a lamp barely lit,
and he waits there.

high above the whitest skies,
under the gazing stars,
swift eagles and bald vultures,
floats a balloon unattached,
and he wonders there.

he gazes upon these wonders,
and he looks up,
closes his eyes,
and he navigates from one to another.

myself ain't thyself.

the mind thinks of wonders,
the eyes see shooting stars,
the ears hear classic and jazz,
and the mouth speaks of everything.

in thyself, much is said not done,
in thyself, much is thought not rethinking,
in thyself, much is provoked not considering,
in thyself, much is consumed not digesting.
and in thyself, flattery fills.

in you then i place my word,
in you then i put my self forward,
in you then i lie silent.

and we wait,
for all that is bound to take place,
and we see,
for all that is about to happen.
and we make progress,
in thyself and myself.

to you.

these words shall not last long,

for it is said and then it is gone,

gone in its way,

it leaves a track,

a track so hard it's indelible,

these words shall not last long,

for it is uttered and then is heard no more,

leaving behind nothing,

but a crying child and an abandoned wife.

these words shall not last long,

for it is muttered so hastily,

it is soon forgotten,

yet it stalks from time to time,

denting the tough spirit,

breaking the soft heart.

these words shall not last long,

for it is yelled out without fear,

and then it dissolves away,

into the deep hearts and minds of a man,

making the sane insane.

these words shall not last long,

and in irony, 

no matter how few it is stringed,

or how elaborate it is explained,

the words never leave without a scar;

i love you not.