Imperfect Poem Novels & Stories

It left hollows. “Did you ever… did you ever have to be perfect, Igor?” I asked, my voice barely a thread. “Not just excellent, but perfect? Because if you weren’t perfect, the disappointment was worse than any yell.” He didn't move. He simply waited. I took a deep, shaky breath, letting the shame and the cold memory surface.

The questions you wanted to ask, the answers you wanted to give. Tons to show and heaps to know. Always. [If we could do things the way we are supposed to do; Then it would've been all perfect throughout our lives. But it isn't , for a reason… And that is because life is all about the little imperfections and flaws that sum up it's beauty, that makes us more of what we really are… A human.] Now, let me tell you a story.

"She'll get used to your presence later. I'm sure of that." "Do I not deserve to be called Harriet's father?" "Of course you deserve it. You're the only one who deserves to be the father of a daughter as adorable as her." Sean smiled faintly. "Yeah, she's adorable and pretty. Harriet looks like you." I rested my head on Sean's shoulder and took one of his arms for a hug. Sean's fingers gripped mine tightly. "I'm not a perfect mother either, Sean. I made a lot of mistakes when I raised Harriet. We all have our flaws. So don't ever say that you don't deserve to be Harriet's father."

But why don't they try to adapt the beauty of that unrealistic approach in their own lives to make even their real lives beautiful? After all, it wasn't an unknown fact that perfection was just a relative word; it's your imperfections that teach you to rise and love because you get to know your individual self but sadly, no one wants to know themselves, all they want to know is the perfect someone which doesn't exist in its entirety but rarely in its own imperfect state.

"Beyond the red river’s flow, where silent clouds do drift, A lone fortress stands among the peaks, so stern and stiff. The flute’s mournful song need not grieve willows' sway, Spring’s gentle breeze crosses not the iron hooves’ cold array.” Miranda had originally written: “Beyond the river’s flow, where silent clouds do drift, A fortress stands in the hills, its shape is stiff. The flute’s mournful song need not grieve willows' sway, Spring’s gentle breeze did not bring the happy day.” She had refined the imagery, making it more profound and smooth, creating a version that surpassed the original. Even if the poem was Selena's, Miranda’s quick ability to improve it left everyone in awe of he

And the reality, as bitter as coffee, seeped through, leaving a stain that no brush could ever cover. So here I am, staring at that ridiculous painting, wondering how I ever fell for such a perfect imperfection.

I won't deny that I liked it and that he made me feel like a woman who is satisfied in intimacy, but it was a mistake. "You can play and not fall in love, I told you that you can enjoy sex." + "I'm afraid I'll like it," I emphasize the last word. Entering the pharmacy that's an hour away from home, since I didn't plan on going to the closest one or calling to have the blessed miracle pill sent to me. Yes! And coincidentally, the pharmacy is called "Impossible Desires." "I hope the name of the pharmacy has power over me." "Do you think the name of the pharmacy is true?" Lucero asks behind me.

Diana stepped out of the shower wrapped in a towel, but when she saw her reflection in the mirror, she dropped it. She couldn't believe it, it was amazing to know that she still had a perfect body. Her breasts were firm, but now larger than before, her waist still looked narrow, her legs were now more shapely than before, and her butt, which had always been her greatest attribute after her face, was arguably now enviable. «At least all is not lost,» She said to herself with a shrug.

I smothered the doubts in my chest again and again, forcing myself to believe it was just an act, nothing more. However, I never imagined that once the first crack appeared in the heart, the dam would burst faster than you ever thought it could.

And still, life proceeds. Somewhere, a small village decides not to repair a bridge that collapsed. Traders reroute. Children learn new paths. Relationships adjust. Life continues, altered, imperfect, sufficient. That is enough. The world does not call it progress. It does not celebrate. It does not record it in grand statements. It does not claim it as victory. It simply moves. And those who notice recognize a strange relief in imperfection. A freedom in incompleteness. A clarity in the absence of total control.