Poor Quality

I miss the subpar.

The low quality,

The...

Ugly, unbalanced, out-of-focus, lopsided attempt

At perfection.

The programming has stolen the imperfects from me.

Yanked them

Right out of my hands

When I wasn't looking, when I was busy staring off

At the polished wonderland of candy cane art,

Sweet bits drenched in the fryer oil of something as gross as

Ease.

Ease of access, ease of input, ease of processing.

Slap a few keys

And press a button to get it right.

It's right.

It's perfect.

And it tasted so damn good.

Those clean lines,

Crisp edges,

Those metaphors and similes and endless, empty eyes...

Empty eyes.

Empty. Eyes.

Because that is a perfect thing too.

Hollow.

Without emotions.

Those don't make sense, those aren't real, those are ugly.

They are subjective and why

Would you ever

Want

Subjective

When the objective

Exists?

I miss the subpar

More than my father.

I've heard every perfect cadence.

Listened to every note hit, held, and left.

I've read all the perfect prose in this style and that,

Watched my words shift in my hands

Like a dying body.

Limp.

I've consumed all the pretty faces,

The shaded jaws,

Hands programmed to look lifelike, to look perfect, to be perfect.

I've digested enough

To know I've been poisoned.

And I want to know now

If the perfect

Exists

Inside of me, if that's why I feel so blank,

So soulless.

So empty.

So vacant.

So quiet on the war front of my dreams.

__________________________

A/N: It physically pains me to write such an...odd looking poem but the point had to be made (to myself at least!). If you're up for a challenge for fun, go write something imperfect! Something you'd see marked down for sale.