those intentional fragments
of unevenness- hollow in form,
they don’t house excuses
and petty probable reasons.
They are quite meant to be
at those odd fabricated spaces.
Some clearly damp enough
to remind me of my woeful perspiration.
Symbols of rampant disorder.
A disdain to the substance of norm.
Rebellious by nature- the self
seeming to be lethargic- thus the cause.
I pity the long and tidy
plainness of the glorious herd,
whose assumptions of standards
are seldom put through consciously and heard.
For they never know how comfortable they would feel
to wear a wrinkled shirt- un-ironed, messy and real.