Looking for perfection
Is not just a vice
It's an addiction, an invisible device
Through which enters
The hitherto invincible corruption
With a humongous, perverted price.
You don't accept a line
A word, an expression
Of a text
You come up with fine
Innocuous suggestions,
But you don't realise
That this intolerance
In other contexts
Can ruin your life.
This virus in your head
Could contaminate your house,
You don't accept your spouse
Their stature, their size
Their looks
You don't accept your child
Their friends, their preferences
Their outfit, their outlooks.
You don't accept your colleagues,
Your friends,
Their language, their leagues
Their possession,
Their habits, their race.
Finally perhaps
A voice says,
'I don't accept myself,
But why pray!
I survive, I exist
I'm on my way
Striving to be perfect,
Not in your books
But on my page.
You accept me, my lines, my germs
Just as they arrive, as they come.
Maybe the world will take
Another hundred years,
Fighting intolerant wars
For a perfect world
With uncountable grief and tears
Until it knew how to love,
To greet others
The way they are,
To accept, welcome
All forms and expressions
Without elusive perfection.
