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My Imperfect Picture
The pieces of my imperfect picture
I pick.
They tear at my hands and knees
I have to find them all
even though I know I can’t.
Tears mixed with blood, on my knees
I crawl
picking up the pieces of my
imperfect picture.
An ear, I find here
A nose, there
A second ear on my rear
An eye on my left
The other on my right.
The lips, I cannot find
Where are the brows to the eyes?
They are not all here
Blood mixed with tears
Broken bits lodged in my eyes
as I wipe away the bloody tears.
I try to glue them back together
But don’t remember how it used to look
All I know is it looks more imperfect
But it is mine and I do not care.
Who broke my imperfect picture
On the window’s ledge precariously perched?
Birgitta Abimbola Heikka.
Replies to This Discussion
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Permalink Reply by Larry A Cochran on
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This is really good. I like it and agree with the imagery,
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Permalink Reply by Birgitta Abimbola Heikka on
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Thank you Larry. It was written in a heat of angry passion.
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Permalink Reply by Cleveland W. Gibson on
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I like the poem. It is filled with emotion. Something happened. Might only change a word or two but that's my opinion. And good luck.
Cleveland
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Yes, something did happen. Thank you. I always value your opinion, Cleveland.
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