Poetry of the Day

We seek perfection
A waking dream
It is within this realm that poetry is born
Living, breathing, art.
If art is pure emotion
It is an unconscious conscious subconscience
Like floating
Nothing else exists
It will not work, he said.
I know, she said.
But it does not matter anymore.
Perfection is just another illusion.
Much like security.
"Ok."
"Ok."