Saturday, January 29, 2005


Plates of glass, mothers and scales
Tell me what i care not to hear
But defeat me in the persistence
By laying bare my deepest fear
Of not being perfect.
Or atleast and approximation of wholesomeness

So i try to splice and halve
The onus of my body's bonus, brood
And contemplate the the richness
of swallowed thought and food
so will i ever be perfect?
if i dwell on this singular mundane goal

trapeziums are as angular
As my perimeter is rounded
but they say a circle can be wholesome
and life within it well founded
And i wonder if i'll ever be perfect
in the prison of a shape


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