Imperfect Poem Novels & Stories

I said, my voice shaking with anger. Feeling overwhelmed, I started walking toward the door, desperate to get away. But then a thought hit me. “You say you want a perfect life with someone else? After treating me like this, do you really think I’ll ever trust another guy? Let me remind you—perfection doesn’t exist. Everyone has flaws. Imperfections are what make us human. You’re chasing something you’ll never have, Marco. You’re not perfect, and you never will be. No one is. Think about that.”

"I am not good at this." "I know," I said. "I have not been good at this for three hundred years." "I know that too," I said. "I am going to be — imperfect at it," he said. The word imperfect from Zaron Draketh was the most vulnerable thing I had heard him say. More vulnerable than the confession about the curse. More vulnerable than knowing about the mate bond. Imperfect — said by a man who had built an entire kingdom on precision — was the equivalent of another person laying themselves completely open.

"How many loves have ended in hatred? How many growths have led to cancer? How many changes have brought regret?" Through divine Luna's perception, Lyra tried to dance but found each movement harder. "*Dancing requires change. The same position held forever isn't dance—it's sculpture. But sculpture is art too, isn't it?*" Luna-who-creates nodded slowly. "A painting that's never finished can't disappoint. A song that never ends can't hit wrong note. Maybe eternal potential is better than imperfect actualization." But Luna-who-loves resisted through mortal anchor. "You're all forgetting—love isn't perfect moment frozen. It's accumulation of imperfect moments that create perfect whole. Every fi

What am I doing in my life? "I appreciate your compliment Mr. And Mrs. Grande but I am not a perfect person. No one is," I replied in my most respectful tone. I don't want to sound rude either way. But if the arrival of my words for them is rude, then that'd be fine for me. Besides, I can stand by my words. No one is living perfectly in this world. Everyone has its flaws, gaps, mistakes, failures and terrible sides. What made it perfect is the person who appreciated and accepted the person's imperfections. That would be pointed as imperfectly perfect.

I met a traveller from an antique land, Who said-"Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal, these words appear: My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings; Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away." P.B Shelley

I had just turned 29 a couple months ago. A couple of older guys tried to hit on me but the bartender shoo’d them off. He could obviously tell I was in some sort of emotional spiral. Otherwise why would the girl who has had three shots and a drink come to the bar by herself looking like this. For a second I caught myself thinking of how pathetic I was. But then I thought, why shouldn’t I have fun. Jared did. I might not be able to have sex with anyone in that manner, but why not get drunk. Everyone else does it when their lives are horrible.

They allowed the music to lift awkwardly into the wind, cracked and imperfect like all of them. Change crawled slowly. Not in thunderclaps. Not in miracles. But in candles that burned through the night. In loaves of bread leavened with wild yeast. In laughter that didn't evaporate the instant it was spoken. In hands that reached to pry away rubble and discovered other hands already present. Some attempted to pretend Perfera never reigned. Others wouldn't even utter her name, lest it still had authority. But most… just remembered. Somberly. Without theatrics. Without anger. Like a bruise that still throbbed when prodded, but no longer bled.

No matter how much I prayed or wished or dreamed, I knew it would probably be the latter. The forest was beautiful in the morning, just after sunrise. The sky still showed traces of pink and purple and the sun was barely visible above the distant mountains. Light shined through cracks in the dense thicket of trees and made the forest look almost magical. I nearly forgot about all of my worries as I stared. My foot suddenly caught on something and I didn't even have time to yelp before my body hit the ground. Laughter surrounded me and I sighed in defeat. Of course, nothing ever went smoothly with me.

I chuckled nervously. He smiled subtly and looked into my eyes, “there’s something wrong with everyone in this world, princess, but that doesn’t make them any less of a person. Having flaws is better than being fake. No one is perfect and they don’t have to be perfect. I find the imperfections about a person more attractive than their whitewashed version of themselves.” “Really?” “Yeah, you see. We say we need to find a mate or a soulmate to complete us. Why do you think fantasies like this exist? Why do you think we feel incomplete in the first place?”

She had sat right where Beverly left her — right where she was still sitting — and had come to the realization that Lord Tennyson knew just what he was saying in his poem. The world was imperfect, filled with imperfect people — herself included. And sometimes these imperfect people hurt one another. But that was okay. No, it was okay only if these imperfect people could in love make allowances for one another to be imperfect, tempering judgment with mercy. And like Beverly said, love was not weak. True love was never weak. What her mother had with her father was not love, she realized that now. Love was not self-seeking. Love never rejoiced in evil. Love was strong. Strong enough to change a