July 6, 2017

Perfection, in Human Form. {Poem}

If the word “perfection” took human form, what would she look like?

For me, she’s a bride without a groom. She longs to be with her equal, spending her life on a restless search for a mate. She’s so attractive, but can never truly be seen. 

This world is too crazy for her to simply stop and be okay, but the idea of a “perfect” mate is even more insane. I feel sorry for her because she’s restless—she feels trapped in her own mind. She tries to put herself in front of our eyes using things like magazine covers, status symbols, and labels, but it never quite works.

The closest she’s ever come to a husband is War. War leads to the end of humanity, and without humanity, there can be no imperfection. Unfortunately, war requires chaos, and that’s something that perfection can’t stand.

Her mind twists and turns in a wild, never-ending loop because she’ll be forever single. She has no one to share her feelings with and therefore can never be released from her pain.

She might get a glimpse of relief if she looked in a mirror, but the problem is, she would disappear in that very same moment, for she would see herself feeling sad and lonely—and being sad and lonely isn’t perfect in society’s eyes.

Therefore, she would cease exist.

Over the course of my life, I’ve seen this idea of perfection lure people away from consciousness. She only does this because she’s lonely. She can’t find a mate because no one on earth lives up to the standards of “her.”

As a person diagnosed with cerebral palsy at the age of four, I’ve had no choice but to wrestle between perfection’s wild illusiveness and connection’s honest availability.

I decided the easiest thing for me to do was let Perfection go and wish her the best.

The poem gave me a sigh of relief. I found, through stream of consciousness, that perfection doesn’t exist. The only thing we can really hope for is something profoundly human. Thankfully, that’s something that exists within us all.


What a word
what a waste in a world where a word such as her
can’t be found
why is perfection such a perilous poisonous potion
most potent
like a Siren song calling us
with a mouth so small

She stands on the edge of a ledge in the eye of a needle
piercing holes into progressive conscious souls
I don’t know, but maybe
it’s because she’s lonely

Maybe’s she’s craving a mate but is too afraid to be taken
because relationships
are all about giving and taking
but dating means learning and learning means making
and that would be crazy

So afraid to be stained with any shade less than amazing
she’s trapped in a jacket way too straight to break free
can it be
she’s running from crazy
all for the safety
of insanity

These raging arms she’s made to play in by society
heavy chain like frames made from magazine pages
we’re forced to be engaged
to a girl we cannot marry
and so without hope, she rages on with accusation

She divides our lives with label blades made of dress sizes, races, and other words like famous
political affiliations
tax brackets and nations
I’d say give me a break but that would only separate us
even further

And her curse would stir us into War
which is just another word
for mass murder
now he’s just the word Perfection’s looking for
from violence comes silence and that’s perfect for sure

Too bad War has affairs with Chaos
he’d marry Perfection in misery and love the divorce
so of course here we are again
Perfection’s gone mental
still raging and complaining and gorgeous
and single

What good are fine lines with no one to share them with
even when you’re a God-send?
but then again,
so is everyone
I’d give her a mirror but then
she’d disappear
because she would see herself alone

And lonely isn’t really perfect
so perfect isn’t really here



Author: Chris Hendricks
Image: YouTube still
Editor: Callie Rushton
Copy Editor: Lieselle Davidson
Social Editor: Yoli Ramazzina

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