the race

the poetry of a backdoor, a sudden flash -
you're quitting as soon as possible, time is out
your wonderful plan resulted as one more crash
your precious chance, oh what was it all about

the poetry of a loser, just one more time:
you didn't succeed so pack up your things and leave
in chasing your luck instead of a real dime
an honesty losing everything to the thieves

the mystical backyard, guess what was never there -
a thing you imagined, marvelous magic door,
your customs to wonders, anything to declare,
an excuse to vanish, leaving them count to four

the poetry of surrounded - they'll count to one
then slowly encircle everyone that you've got
and leave you no weapons, no single chance to run,
one option to prove you're worth their only shot

the poetry of the wisest: if you survive
then you'll be the ones with rare protective fold
the race that you're in infrequently leaves alive,
but those who can make it usually take the gold.

imperfection

it tastes like a nepalese snow smells like indian curry
it hits every brain oh so hard and is known by so little
in every notorious rush, in the fire and hurry
in every responsible human that's so noncommittal

it always has started with love, what a wonderful feeling
until it has slapped you and left you with nothing to wait for
from "give me your left cheek" and self-irreplaceable kneeling
to going through ultimate challenge of "i'll call you later"

it hurts like a knife in your stomach it tears you to pieces
it drives you to endless divisors of self intersection
it never shows up in the mirrors and always increases
and never dissolves cause the name of it is imperfection