image presents four good apples and one bad

Perfect’s Dead – poem

Perfect’s Dead

If only I were perfect

Cos perfect is okay
Perfect wouldn’t be angry
Every single fecking day

Perfect doesn’t age, grow fat or be ugly
Perfect doesn’t make mistakes, break or get disease
If I were perfect he’d build a castle for my security
He’d fight for me
But perfect I’m not; so slowly I rot as he searches
Scrambling for memories and society’s promises

Oh to be perfect, what a thing that would be
I could watch him searching infinity
He’d be looking here and there but find me no where
Why would perfect want to be found?

By earthy worms breaking ground?


copyright sam J harris 2022