I used to be perfect,

but now I am not;

I have fallen off the mantel, the wagon, the pedestal;

It is hard to maintain a pretty pretense,

projecting such a perfect pile of poop all the time;

I confess I am imperfect—

past, present, future.

The last time I tried to be perfect,

I nearly disappeared;

I started chipping away

all the imperfect pieces of myself,

until there was hardly any “me” left—

which would not have been the perfect thing to do.

I had a false notion of perfection—

based on other people’s  perceptions.

Perfect people are so tense,

in the most past-perfect-tense-way.

most of them got nailed to a pole,

or tarred and feathered,

or shot by a madman,

on a fateful day;

it all makes no sense

to be burned at the stake, 

or martyred in some other horrible way,

for being so perfect;

because, as they say:

only the good die young.

I prefer to be

just imperfect me:

a little quirky perhaps. . .

unique. . .

the whole package. . .

unstrung.

©Knightwriter,  Sept. 10, 2013