me and my flaws

Scratches on the walls,
sketches on the door.

I don’t really give a damn who sees this junk
supposedly called work of art, or poetry
or what have you.

I meant every letter, every word,
and I own every flaw.

It was not meant to be savored for more than
a blink of an eye, because these days
seldom does a feeling last longer than a life
of a butterfly.

The worse part of it is, you miss
the beauty in scratches and deep scars,
pass them by for something pretty
and fleeting
and shallow.


© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved


9 thoughts on “me and my flaws”

      1. Thank you for saying so. I’m not a poet, really. Just a fool who falls for words that hide the ghosts of the past, the promises of tomorrow, and the efforts to stay present.

        Liked by 1 person

      2. Ah, spoken like a true poet. And you are welcome because I really mean it. By the way, if you are just a fool then I would rather read all the fools of the world if they write like you. Be present!

        Liked by 1 person

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