Imperfect Poem Novels & Stories

That was everything. That was enough. That was perfect in its imperfection. Exactly as it should be.

after everything I went through, still just insults I did my study on those creatures for years, and I can still remember some of my favourite poetry and poems I read as a kid A Last Word by Ernest Dowson Let us go hence: the night is now at hand; The day is overworn, the birds all flown; And we have reaped the crops the gods have sown; Despair and death; deep darkness o'er the land, Broods like an owl; we cannot understand Laughter or tears, for we have only known Surpassing vanity: vain things alone Have driven our perverse and aimless band. Let us go hence, somewhither strange and cold, To Hollow Lands where just men and unjust Find end of labour, where's rest for the old, Freedom to all

A wave of pure, undiluted inspiration. This was not the structured inspiration of the New Lexicon. This was raw, untamed, and dangerously creative. It was the muse that whispers the blasphemous idea, that sketches the impossible machine, that writes the poem which breaks all the rules of meter. The wave flowed out from the garden, invisible and silent, washing over the edited worlds. On a planet where every life followed a perfect three-act structure, a painter suddenly found herself obsessively painting the same, slightly crooked apple over and over again. The Editors' algorithms flagged it as a repetitive glitch, but could not delete the profound, unsettling beauty of its imperfection.

Stolen moments with my husband. Imperfect. Messy. Exhausting. And absolutely perfect exactly as it was.

One day at a time. And it's beautiful. Not perfect. Not polished. Not what I imagined. But mine. Completely, impossibly mine. And that's everything.

It's been written to death. "No, June is immortal," cried Emily suddenly, a mutinous sparkle replacing the strained look in her eyes. She was not going to let Mr Carpenter have it all his own way. But Mr Carpenter had tossed June aside without reading a line of it. "'I weary of the hungry world'--what do you know of the hungry world?--you in your New Moon seclusion of old trees and old maids--but it is hungry. Ode to Winter--the seasons are a sort of disease all young poets must have, it seems--ha! 'Spring will not forget'--that's a good line--the only good line in it. H'm'm--Wanderings--

The bloodlust vanished from the air like it never existed. “Well, at least I am perfect at being flawed…” Ezra sipped in the coffee, making loud slurping noises which was clearly annoying Raven even more. “I am flawlessly imperfect.” He continued in a dreamy tone, like he was reciting the hymn of the universe. “Imperfectum est perfectio. Perfectio est illusionis. Imperfection is perfection and perfection is illusion. So, you are an illusion, Raven.” He pointed his finger at Raven. Ouch. That must have hurt, and it clearly did. I gaped at Raven.

David stuttered. "Don't," I cautioned him. I felt pure heat in the palms of my hands. My blood was now running hot and I was eager to knock my cousin off the high horse my father wanted to put him on. "All this ruckus is very impolite, and as men, the two of you should be ashamed of yourselves. I was expecting this behavior from these two." My father looked over to the ladies. "Sorry to disappoint, Your Majesty," Emily said back to him and I caught the tiny smile he showed, but as quick as light, it vanished.