In a perfect world in a flower field I would be
I’d be laying there, I’d be having a picnic,
or be watching the sunset, I’d be smiling no stop,
I’d speak giggle and chat, talking my thoughts: this and that,
Speaking North and then South with no beginning and end,
imperfectly perfect: like the flow of the time.
In a perfect world never struggling I’d be.
In a perfect world I’d be me like I am,
and my lips would taste of wine, cherries, books,
and poems, stories and kisses,
all the time.
In a perfect world maybe I’d be perfect like that,
but more likely I’d never understand
what a perfect moment truly is.
In that perfect world I am not,
but I can imagine it, all of it.
I can dream and can share it. I can dream I can reach it.
I can feel my heart wanting it, and to perfectly aim.
In a perfect world, I’d not be here writing this, as I do.
Writing about the mistakes I do, about believing in what I do.
With all the love I feel in me and around.
And what a miss it would be.
In whatever world, perfect or imperfect I am here,
writing about how not an instant should be wasted,
because it’s a crime to live even a single breath
without smelling all the flavours it does bring.
Far from perfect I am.
I am a woman of many wrongs and some rights, as anyone is,
I do feel though, and there is no feeling like that.
I do feel the world, open and fresh,
fresh as a merry go round, as a barefoot run on the grass,
kissed by the sun and the breeze.
In this personal perfect I feel the scent of the flowers,
I do giggle and stop, relishing the pounding heart I’ve been gifted
I do breath, I explode and I do smile my own smiles.
Not caring about perfect, because perfect is now