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The pieces of my imperfect picture
I pick.
They tear at my hands and knees
I have to find them all
even though I know I can’t.
Tears mixed with blood, on my knees
I crawl
picking up the pieces of my
imperfect picture.

An ear, I find here
A nose, there
A second ear on my rear
An eye on my left
The other on my right.

The lips, I cannot find
Where are the brows to the eyes?
They are not all here
Blood mixed with tears
Broken bits lodged in my eyes
as I wipe away the bloody tears.

I try to glue them back together
But don’t remember how it used to look
All I know is it looks more imperfect
But it is mine and I do not care.

Who broke my imperfect picture
On the window’s ledge precariously perched?

                                                                                                Birgitta Abimbola Heikka.

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Replies to This Discussion

This is really good. I like it and agree with the imagery,

Thank you Larry.  It was written in a heat of angry passion.

I like the poem. It is filled with emotion. Something happened. Might only change a word or two but that's my opinion. And good luck.


Yes, something did happen.  Thank you.  I always value your opinion, Cleveland.


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