Aug 18
Perfection; great illusion.
Tell me is that where your demons dwell?
Are they in the garden, or the bottle,
Or some supreme personal hell?
Is flawlessness a virtue,
Or a distraction for the mind?
Is the appeal of the ideal
Truly a goal that’s so sublime?
Could a diamond be a paragon
Of what a body’s meant to be?
A texture unattainable,
Lacking relevance, ridiculously.
Do you seek the pure?
And can such a thing truly be real?
Beware the call of perfection,
For, in truth, there is no ideal.
Tell me is that where your demons dwell?
Are they in the garden, or the bottle,
Or some supreme personal hell?
Is flawlessness a virtue,
Or a distraction for the mind?
Is the appeal of the ideal
Truly a goal that’s so sublime?
Could a diamond be a paragon
Of what a body’s meant to be?
A texture unattainable,
Lacking relevance, ridiculously.
Do you seek the pure?
And can such a thing truly be real?
Beware the call of perfection,
For, in truth, there is no ideal.
Lately I’ve been doing a weekly thing with a friend where we pick a word out of this book she has, and we both write a poem. I wasn’t planning on sharing them on here, as they’re more exercises than poems. But then I thought, meh why not?
So this is one of those.
So this is one of those.
