That Perfect Day
I was sitting on the beach
Reading my book so very peacefully
And I just thought to myself “What a Perfect Day.”
The sun was seeping into my bones
I had a smile on my face
I couldn’t stop thinking “What a Perfect Day.”
Life all around me was happy
The children were laughing
The parents were smiling and I thought “What a perfect Day.”
The ocean was inviting swimmers in
The sand soft beneath my feet
The warm breeze across my face
The sun bronzing my skin
I stopped and looked at the sky saying “What a perfect Day.”
~
Life is awesome and always better when you’re down the shore~
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AllahuCena
It's funny, perfection (happiness itself even) is such an intangible and subjective idea. With the extent of the balloons-headedness of this "poem," I expect the joy of her perfection was similar to the joy of the Enola Gay flight crew. Wearing sandals made in Vietnamese sweat shops, playing on a phone made in suicide-proofed Chinese factories, she stood as a monolith of bourgeoisie excess, and wrote a sub-par poem to brag of her vapidity. I hope the writer understands that she stole a father from his children, because after reading this I decided I'm done with this world.
Welp, the noose is finished, AllahuCena out.