Imperfect

In this poem
I perform a playback
thinking that I reach
the song that I left back.
To you, Destiny Goddess,
that on canvas I drew
fugitives stanzas of that melody
that I once imagined:
you were fairy, you were destiny
and you were fatality
sweet Perseid of infinite end
whose fate I now inquire
Why did you precipitate?
If your stars I never reached
under this sinister heaven
that only knew death.

Poem - Fallen Perseid

With abrupt end, inspired by mythology and style too imperfect, how could this be a poem? their verses, months after being written, might even like you. Even they could be dedicated to an imperfect Heaven Goddess or a Predictable Destiny Muse, who knows, both mortal beings. Although to be completely clear in this poem there is nothing of poetry but something rhythmic that looks like a rudimentary adolescent occurrence. Moreover, it's the self love which adorns this empty poem. The woman figure is deified beyond poet's ego and then thrown into the own abyss because the beauty of the poem belongs to the poe... yikes!

The springs pass
and you may like the previous paragraph,
even can you detest its commas excess
although they being which are vital
whose pauses are emerging in first texts
of perfectionist and novice poets
who look for own style without knowing
neither how they want to be
nor the symphony of what would like to write.

But you,
you mature and still don't like it and yes,
You might like the previous prose
even might the abundance of conjunctions
hide a poem, a rythmic stanzas that
without commas you yet dont see.

And finally
years later as a sunrise
the prose abdicate
and to a poem turn
drowning verses
in rhythmic redundancy
that absent of breaks
still dont know how
to look in

Breaks. Look in. Buah! Poetry Cracker, profaner of dead poets; You strike out, find out and then lose yourself again: the rhythm you already have but you only get worse. The years pass and you hadn't advanced since your first poems. Sometimes you bunch verses and make all of them collapse on themself. You are as predictable as your Destiny Muse: you are hiding your soul under the indispensable and eliminating the superfluous. And for what? for nothing because the rhyme still seems which looks like a child who thought it was ingenious to rhyme with verbs

then you strike out
and you throw away the idea of ​​a poem
hole up you in the prose disorder
Because, uups!
What are the names of those who write prose?
pro...sewhat? procurers
Nobody knows them.
Looks like there isn't a half term
And maybe the problem is me:
the failed poet who writes in prose
who have given up to the imperfect.
Or maybe I never knew anything about poetry. 


Already into your adulthood; prose, poem or free text, what's the difference? At this point of the road you don't find beauty nor in the ethereal. We all know how to write nice, force the rhyme and even create our own style rules. Nobody writes for eternity and any new story is a derivation of another passage. There is little place for surprise and you accept yourself as what you are: imperfect.
The last one, please, switches off the lights.

Author's notes:
1. Original in spanish (2017).
2. I tried to be creative and I got this stupid and imperfect post. Try to be a retrocorrection/iteration of the previous paragraph/poem/prose; as if every paragraph/poem/prose was written in different periods of life with its corresponding level of maturity. What is striked out are simulated final corrections. It's imperfect and yes, I have written poems just to adorn a text, didn't Tolkien write verses in elf? :-P