Sometimes, I write poems

and wrestle words into bouquets:

amateurish sprigs of promises,

representing far too much hope—

Plucking the petals

to lovingly rearrange them:

C’est la nouveau chanson,

warbled in perfect polyphony.

Where our measures match up, I figured

we could compare notes,

even if it means pulling an all-nighter

in the name of harmonic progressions—

But, at last, I’ve embraced

dissonance too, and timing

just isn’t important to me anymore.

i like the way when i was doing a puzzle

that it looked like one piece was sure to fit

but no matter how hard i tried

its rigid lines weren’t what were intended

i wanted to bend it

and where the holes were

i was sure i could mend it

but even if i could then the 

bigger picture would be distended

so if it’s the piece i never expected

the image changes, it self-explains

and i feel silly for not seeing the obvious

brush lines in the paint

this was the thing i was making!

this was it all along!

any other landscape in my mind

was both impossible and wrong.

this is the peace i was looking for—

the completion of the vision

(and with this addition

still nothing was ever missing)