We call ourselves lovers,
but all we do is cause pain within each other's hearts.
We show the hurt in our words and our eyes to one another; we call this trust.
Only, when we do this, we just show how imperfect our lover is, because nothing they do will ever take away the pain.
They could trace their lips upon my sweet blushed skin and whisper the sweetest nothings to make my heart stop and race,
but they will never take away the crippling depression I face every night, when the mind is most active and alone.
I could write him, poem by poem,
and he'd read every syllable over and over before bed,
but that will not take away his living memories.
No matter how much a person could care,
It'll only take off the edge for awhile now and then,
until we both crumble in each other's arms; until we become the fragments of our beautiful, lonely distressed romance.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Imperfections by Jozee Huber )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(8 February 1911 – 6 October 1979)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
- The Saddest Poem, Pablo Neruda
- Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, Dylan Thomas
- Invictus, William Ernest Henley
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- Fire and Ice, Robert Frost
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- A Dream Within A Dream, Edgar Allan Poe
- No Man Is An Island, John Donne
- Daffodils, William Wordsworth
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
Poem of the Day
- A Touching Rendition, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- Dahshatgard, Bano Ali
- Safe Haven, Denis Martindale
- My Dear Father, Monesh Kumar
- But quarrelsome, gajanan mishra
- Period so brief, hasmukh amathalal
- Rapping Christmas, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- On Christmas Evening, John Lars Zwerenz
- MAX, Dog goD 8Hate
- Defective, gajanan mishra