People Say that Jesus was Perfect

Others seek perfection of themselves
And others, but I,
Odd duck that I am,
Seek less-than-perfection.

I do not want to be
One held up as an example of
What life and poetry are
(As though there is a chance
Of that happening!),
But more as an example of
What life and poetry might be
If one should machete the right bush,
Which I never seem to do,
But I do keep on striving.

With perfection, there is no individuality.
There are no surprises,
No gasps.
It is the imperfection that rakes the heart,
Confuses the soul
And gives solace to the lost.

People say that Jesus was perfect.
Were that true,
I would have no use for a Christ.

I do not desire a mentor,
A brother,
Who knows how it is
And how to do it.

I want He Who
Tries.

The spirit that does its best to know truth
While knowing that it can truly know nothing
Is the spirit that I will follow and admire.

The spirit that claims all knowledge
Is best buried far from me,
Its grave unmarked.

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