Imperfect Poet

Poetry, short stories and other things.




Happiness comes in many forms.

A bookstore is one, 

tea is another, 

coffee another, 

good company another.

So how can one then not be content

coffee in hand, 

surrounded by books, 

in good company.


I look at you…

I look at you
And I see wisdom
And I see years of suffering
And joy
And miraculous events
And troubles.

I look at you
And I see the weariness
In your eyes.
Weariness that have come
With you over the years
And I see the sadness
Lurking there
Of losses of loved ones
For outliving her children
Is a mother’s worst nightmare

I look at you and
I see the beauty that you
Used to be
The beauty that hides
Beneath your aged visage.

I look at you
And I see the longing
For escape out of this body
That you are trapped in
Caged in,
Unable to help your child.
A mother’s only want
You can not have.

I look at you
And I see 91 years of
Love,  grief,  joy,  hope, love
Loss,  suffering,  adventure
And so many more things

And I see how you are so ready
So eager to leave this world.

I have been meaning to

I have been meaning to

write a letter to you, my dear.

Yet my paper stayed empty

and it reflected my words perfectly.

I have been meaning to

whisper dreadful things

in your ear.

I would tell you

of all that has happened

and how life has changed

for the better..

I suppose…

I haven’t written in a while.I am aware.

I was waiting.

Waiting to hear if you would ask

or you would bother to care.

I would have written about the world

and all its sorrow,

but words are only


scribbles on paper,

white noise,

empty air.

I have been meaning to

write to you, my dear.

I have.

I swear.

Yet my words stayed

merely words,

empty air.


When will this cycle end?

The cycle of waking and eating and surviving and sleeping?

Even when we are succeeding and thriving it is all a vain effort to give meaning to the meaningless.

What is the meaning of this?

All that is left to do is fill our time with all that we can find. We smoke and swallow until we choke on the illusion of what freedom is.

All the while starting a new cycle- one ending in despair.

When will this cycle end?

The point of this blog.

Why do we write? To calm our nerves? To impress others when they read our work? To exprese our anger and fear and love and joy? The truth is, everyone has their own reasons, I have mine, you have yours… I think the reason that I wanted to start this blog the most is because I don’t want my words to be trapped on paper anymore, sure they are safer there, lurking in the shadows where they cannot be judged, yet here, I believe they can inspire people… and that means so much more.

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