Your Standards Can Burn

I’ve no idea what perfect means—
those broken truths,
these fever dreams.
I write what rises in my chest,
from up above,
amid unrest.

 

Like some court stenographer,
I transcribe truths
that few prefer.
So take these words for what they're worth--
a perjury,
or stillborn birth.

 

But, dear reader—critic, friend—
this jumbled song
was not pretend.
It may be static, cracked or loud,
a midday sun,
or thundercloud.

 

I touch on hate, I lean on love.
This mess I make
is yours to shove
into some greater shape or flame—
but don’t mistake
this blood for shame.