There are those that we carry by hands
swings of yearning,
mending shoes in memory.
Made of cotton candy,
pruning white tulips
to write hugs.
There are the ones we don't know how to draw smiles,
but we think butterflies out loud.
The kind we grow in mountains,
cascading waterfalls
and eroded everything in their path.
We are imperfect,
using sensible compasses,
orienting syllables
to our favorite word.
There are those allergic to doubts,
to blunders.
Those of us who play at compromises
without knowing the rules.
Of the erupting volcano type,
when you start a family war.
Yes, imperfect
with brushstrokes on the face
for not knowing how to subtract negative numbers.
Because we decided to become deaf,
bite our lips
and silence desires.
There are those that draw nails
to fight dreams.
We assault trains of tenderness,
touring moons
with silver songs.
There are imperfect ones
which are thermal blankets,
they smell like melancholy,
to sweet cream and alphabet soup.
Those that are spelling errors without eraser
thought in sepia tones
so as not to burst threads of sanity.
Considered imperfect,
for serving himself a double cup of irony,
so he can calm his stumbles.
All of us, we meet at every station...
This poem can also be found in my Whaleshares blog
