Perspective

I pick apart poems like petals from peonies, prying every precious drop of prior knowledge from the purest of people. Probably because passionate words pull at my particles and prod me to progress forward. I am a product of unkept promises and proper manners, so pardon me for pausing under peer pressure while perfectly postured. I pressed my lips against your prideful mouth and praised your every psalm. I proclaimed paradise, purged pessimism, and played into your palm. Poetry pulses through my pulmonary arteries and protrudes from my windpipes. It prescribed posthumous peace preceded by our point in time’s perpetual passing. People’s personal presentations of love preserve my own particular perception.