Inspired to chapter 5 in Algebra II, the poetry unit in Creative Writing, and Erin.
The Wandering Prophet of Pylesville
life is imperfect.
it's just a statement,
but it's the truest thing I'll ever say.
flip it, turn it, taste it on your tongue,
let it sit for a moment
then reverse it.
life is perfection.
merely by the act of living,
we are the greatest thing since
(dare I say it)
but here I go again,
lying to the good reader
both of them are true.
so am I.
I'll lay it out
over the length of eight yards of fabric
and the width of a school hallway
and the depth of a shallow heart.
then maybe the good reader can understand.
life is imperfect,
but life is also perfection.
see, by the act of living, we
(as in, all of us)
make life imperfect.
people are not god
and people will make mistakes.
but, we're still alive
and by that act of living,
we are malleable, changing.
didn't think so.
life is like
(no, not a box of chocolates)
a hoodie, if you want to be exact
(and I think you do).
asks the good reader confusedly
and I hasten to reply
in that parental attitude
(all-knowing, all-seeing, clueless to reality).
a favorite hoodie can be worn forever.
this is a scientific fact,
backed up by numerous studies and many psychiatrists
(all of whom will declare you insane soon as look at you).
true, it'll get holes and tears
and many washings will fade the color,
but it will be worn forever.
shoddy patch jobs on the sleeves
and stripes that weren't on the shelf
will deplete the asking price
until you've got memories in the cotton
and dreams to keep you warm.
even when the zipper's gone,
safety pins'll do the same job cheaper.
for every missing tooth on the traintrack zipper line,
you've got one hell of a story to tell.
and for each different color,
you know exactly why it's
blue instead of yellow,
patterned instead of plain,
spandex instead of 80-20 cottlyn
(that cotton-nylon mix that makes it soft and stretchy).
and that's kind of the way life is,
ripping, tearing, puncturing,
but always patching up the damage
(no matter how gaudy it ends up)
so that it can all continue tomorrow.
follow the green strings
backwards to lead to the beginning.
start at the end, go to the litterist
and find me, scribbling on dirty and torn paper
in the lonely corner that constitutes as mine.
and I'll tell you the meaning of life,
as seen in the threads of an everlasting hoodie.
maybe if you're lucky, good reader,
I'll tell you about the purpose of shoes in the universe.
but that's a story for another day.