There's perfect, in the imperfections,
well worn scrappy fabric edges,
the scratchy start to
a favorite record.
It's as if the truth, unfiltered,
is letting humanity
grin through the gaps.
Art is not exact,
not simply time,
capturing a tiny shard of now.
Instead, the imperfections
spur reflections on
the true message,
hidden like lemon juice scribbles,
for us to decode.
Music is not just safe sound,
fit for lifts and foyers,
but the plucking and tapping
of woven frequency,
intertwining amid memories
and writing new soundtracks
for our feelings.
Perfection is the enemy.
Seeking perfection places pressures,
prompts sharp edges to arms,
drives people to despair
and high bridges.
Embrace imperfect.
It's the only thing we all have in common,
and yet makes us unique.






