Wincing, his eyes scan the copy,
as if words are red ink,
His brow does that thing,
imperfections are roped climbers
that have lost their footing,
Whose hobby scours granite monsters anyway?
If you have time to carve your name,
or your love objects name, in a tree,
shouldn’t it be spelled correctly?
The recklessness, the impatience, impulsivity;
The way the imperfect is so perfect,
reminds me of people wearing wine goggles,
they like everything way too much,
sometimes its best to enjoy
life, just plain
as it is