to expect perfection is to be alone.

where can you meet the ideal,

but in an idle daydream,

a self-constructed idyll?

self-reverential idols,

self-praising, mumbling profanities

aimed at the world, and all of humanity.

condemnation, condemnation, condemnation

the filing cabinet of love

clerical work, seated judiciary

a throne of mahogany 

swiping, swiping, swiping

red stamps of disapproval

and away they go.

one sniff of humanity,

that hated miasma,

and i must run.

i turn up my nose

at every passerby.

i see perfection in all beings,

because i am unconditionally loving,

or so i tell myself.

and if they misstep 

and shatter the lenses on my glasses of rose

and their blemishes come into focus 

then what does one do? what should one do?

you cut them off. that’s what you do.

…

right?