Imperfection

I do my best writing when I'm alone. 

The cacophony of city sounds

enshrouding me like a tomb. 

I can hear the lives of others here, 

Though I don't even breath. 

I am drowned in discourses.

Life has a throb in this place, 

A thudding pulse of life

And endless possibility. 

But I slumber inside quietly. 

A sleeping giant

With no castle to call home. 

The razor wire of my misconceptions

Folds nicely into two. 

This fated endeavor

Was doomed from the beginning. 

But there is laughter, 

And sometimes tears

Inside this bird-caged heaven.

Repose can still be sweet, 

Though often daunting

In its ravenous piercing dart. 

So I cling to what I know

And discard old truths gone bad. 

Tomorrow is another day

To paint the story.