Religion of Perfection [repost]

I am diminished by the second
as I stand here surrounded by
pages of the magazines,
cut out body parts
stuck together by sticky tape
onto the head of a figure that is
imperfection personified.

And as the pressure builds
the surface turns into something
shiny, pretty, startlingly merging
into a picture of odd proportions
but it is never enough,
not even remotely close
to that which is ideal
and as the puzzle
starts to be complete
the pieces contort into monsters
grinning, with claws ready
to tear, scratch, masticate
the excesses, trimming the
edges until it is perfect.

I cannot help but feel
stuffed like a doll
plucked and stitched
emptied of all its contents
and as I sit here utterly deflated
and beyond reason
I rationalize this ludicrous
worshipping of mainstream idealism
bobbing my head to the tune of
ingenious advertising.

But sometime between being
less than perfect and mediocre
I stop cutting and pasting
and look at my masterpiece of
glossy paper and sticky tape
disgust fills me, bile mixes with saliva
and I begin to see this
thing of beauty for what it really is
a make shift paper doll
a ghost haunting modern
high-definition bibles
fading gracefully from the covers
and it hits me hard, that I would
rather cast myself to the bowels of hell
with the rest of the blasphemers and
heretics brandishing their pitchforks
to these 'saints and martyrs' than
sit here and do nothing as I am slowly
reduced to this so called perfection.




-- a beautiful, BEAUTIFUL poem by my dear friend Riva. Sorry, I just HAD to share it. I miss you, girl!