comfort dignity truth.jpg

No one is going to lie to me.
Everyone lies to you.
All of my poems are perfect.
None of your poems are perfect.
I will not grow old and die.
You will grow old and die.
Nature will not be indifferent to me.
Nature is totally indifferent to you.
Art, philosophy, and learning will set me free.
Art, philosophy and learning will enslave you.
I will accept imperfection and be happy.
Imperfection accepted is the measure of misery.
I will work for the best and satisfy myself by that.
The worst always finds the best and makes it its host.
All who really know me will love me.
No, they will hate you or pity you.
I don’t want anyone’s pity.
You are going to get it.
But you are different; you will tell me a good thing.
I am not different; I am like all the rest.
Where is my comfort, my dignity, my truth?
Where is our comfort, our dignity, our truth?


  1. anonymous said,

    September 16, 2013 at 1:40 am

    I like this poem. This is a good poem.

  2. anonymous said,

    September 16, 2013 at 1:43 am

    I object to L11 & L12, however.

  3. Anonymous said,

    September 16, 2013 at 12:38 pm

    I think it’s a positive poem, because it speaks to everyone, but line 12 is pessimistic.

  4. Gary B. Fitzgerald said,

    September 17, 2013 at 12:36 am


    This glossy white we painted our kitchen
    makes the cabinets and drawers look almost perfect,
    but in the stark fluorescent glow I notice
    how the shiny bright makes plain
    all the scratches and the gouges in the grain
    because the sheen reflects so perfectly the light.

    From space this small blue ball seems also perfect,
    smooth, without feature and unblemished
    in the sun’s unyielding light, but when closer
    these tiny wrinkles and errant stains
    become mighty oceans and stretching plains,
    the grandeur of great mountains touching sky.

    The mutation of the genes makes imperfection
    and these flaws are by Nature unforgiven.
    Millions have died, mashed and mixed
    in the relentless genetic blender,
    thrashed and cut by evolution’s thresher
    and this, in time, made all these creatures perfect.

    People, too, are seldom close to perfect
    and by these inconsistencies character is granted,
    still I notice that none survive forever
    no matter how beautiful or strong or clever.
    It shows us how imperfect our perceptions.
    It is the imperfection of the world
    that makes it perfect.

    Copyright 2008 – Softwood – Seventy-eight Poems, Gary B. Fitzgerald

  5. Bmatteau@gmail.com said,

    September 20, 2013 at 12:28 am

    Big changes will be happening on this website. Finally, scarriet will enter the modern age and will try to keep up with the latest in technology & general overall modern day mores. As with Apple, it will all be revealed in good time. If you haven’t updated your iPhone, now is the time.

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