Imperfect Poem Novels & Stories

The drive home seemed like it took forever- even though it was only about 20 miles. I was hoping I didn’t crush Will’s self confidence too easily. I felt awful that he had went through such a terrible accident that would leave him without an arm, and just when hope was attainable for him to be able to fit in, he was deemed unacceptable by society. People were always so judgmental and and broke my heart… especially since he seemed like such a nice guy.

And in the end, it was a choice I wouldn't trade, for it led me to a life that was authentic, imperfect, and utterly mine. The phrase hung in the air, a poignant reminder of the elusive nature of perfection. I always missed it, whatever "it" was – the mark, the moment, the connection. It was as if I was perpetually chasing a mirage, always reaching out but never quite grasping what I sought. The realization stung, but it also brought a sense of familiarity. I'd grown accustomed to the feeling of just missing the mark, of coming close but not quite reaching my goals. It was a bittersweet sensation, one that left me wondering what I could have done differently.

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.

#MarriedButAlone #IMarriedACheater #PagesI’llDeleteLater “What is this? A pity poem?” I spat with a scowl, “Who the hell wrote this?!”

And when the first five words left his lips, I could not explain how I felt because somehow we prepared the same vow. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of being and ideal grace I love thee to the level of every day’s Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for right. I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs and with my childhood faith

She asks, lost in his eyes, lost in the soft sensation of his touch. "I'm scared of an ending Even a happy one. I never finish a sentence Cause I fear you will not be there to answer. I never end a thought Cause I fear you will not be in the next one. I never feared death Cuse I thought I am imortal. But you, my love Are poison for the Gods." He whispers the poem in her ear like the rest of the world is not supposed to hear the words, like the wind is not supposed to carry them anywhere else. They are just for her.

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?”

he asked softly, brushing a lock of hair from my damp forehead. "Because this," I whispered, "is the only time I feel alive." He didn’t say anything after that. He just smiled—a quiet, knowing thing—and we moved to repeat the final sequence once more. Because perfection wasn’t a moment. It was a pursuit. And I would chase it forever—on bruised toes and quiet breath, until every step was poetry, and every fall a flight.

Almost perfect. Almost.