Neither a stain,
nor the mark of a hand
that didn’t pretend
to be more precise than it was.
but corners left unstraightened,
folds that refuse to lie flat—
the small rebellion that
keeps the room alive.
Call it slovenly if you like;
I call it the place where the work
finally tells your truth.
.
-
Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: December 17th, 2025 05:13
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 87
- Users favorite of this poem: Friendship, Jerry Reynolds
Offline)
Comments8
The mark of the owner. What sets it aside from the sterile, the plastic veneer of machine made mediocrity. A personality that makes it human. Not perfect but perfection in its blemishes, art in error love in a marring touch that leave a fingerprint. A beautiful write Cryptic
Thanks, Soren. 🙏🏻🕊️
Most welcome Cryptic
Standards aren't slipping anymore, they've plummeted.
Once upon a time you would get hammered for doing a shit job, now it's the norm.
A sad truth of our day 🙏🏻🕊️
Thanks for the Fave 🤩 @PerditaRose 🙏🏻🕊️
Your poem seeks to challenge traditional notions of beauty, precision, and order, advocating for a broader understanding of truth that includes flaws and imperfections. It serves as a reminder that authenticity is found in the unpolished aspects of life and creativity.
With new eyes we see the possible world 🕊️🙏🏻
Good write A.
Thanks O
A fine write, arqios.
Thank you, Jerry🙏🏻🕊️
We all have those slight folds in our lives Rik.
Andy
Yes we do, thanks Andy🙏🏻🕊️
and may the truth always prevail whether people try to trample, shatter or disfigure it...
Amen🙏🏻🕊️
Amen from me too...
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