Damsel in Distress

She was perfect in her own way, perfect like no one else could be. Unapproachable, perhaps, in about three of her facades, but perfect. Perfect was a moving state, you see, a transient state waiting for the next perfect, the better perfect. I really wish she would find that perfect, perfectly. I've been wishing this for a very long time, you see. When the next time comes, and maybe she comes around, maybe I'll stop.

Perhaps I already missed my stop. Perhaps that's why I'll keep missing her, and I can't be wishing anymore.

I'm not the princess, and never should be. I'm not the damsel in distress, and never will be.

Wisdom

Mother, Mother,
My eyes are dimmed
In past lights of day,
In wars not mine.

My tongue is weary
With the same strange speech,
Again and again- I know
not to say, otherwise.

Mother, mother,
I know not tomorrow
Nor the day after that.
Maybe you don't either.

A Window Into a Soul

A soul not far from my own,
The sun shining in a different place,
In a different time zone.
A different caution we all create and live,
Of course, for no two tick alike,
No two have the same cogs...

Those things that push us forward
And wind us back,
Grinding forth when we must meet
Ourselves, and two ways to run
The same route, the same process;
Writing, if for the world it is.

Flat dimensions do run forward and back,
After all,
Sifting down to find the "up",
Falling down to rise elsewhere,
Such this life, an infinite stream
Of words, words that live apart.

PS: This was an activity from the Writer's Guild meeting that I had today. It was to interview someone else and learn about them, then write an autobiography for them. This took about four minutes, give or take. I meant for this to be a bit of a portrait.