Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.002 apart. A smaller distance means the lines are built more alike.

This number is read from the build of the lines. The bright edge is that number, carried outward until the pattern repeats.

Perfectionist Blues

by Richard

−0.2667 + 0.4454i

Drawing the boundary…

Yet Do I Marvel

by Countee Cullen

−0.2647 + 0.4442i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.

Perfectionist Blues

by Richard

Head full of diamonds, pockets full of sand
Got a million dollar dreams trapped in this two-bit hand
Sketches for a symphony, a novel in my head
But the fear of every flaw leaves all the words unsaid

I see the sunrise, but it's never just right
Chasing the daylight, through every night
I'm painting a picture, but the colours don't blend
Endless revisions, where does it end? 

Oh, the perfectionist blues, what a heavy load
Chasing illusions down a winding road
Need to learn to settle, need to let it go
Perfection's just a shadow, a truth I need to know

The world isn't flawless, even God made a few
Mistakes in creation, a cosmic debut
The stars in their courses, they sometimes collide
Perfection's a myth that I've got to let slide

They say even God ain't perfect, made some stumbles on his way
Mountains and the oceans, imperfections in their display
Maybe beauty lies in flaws, the cracks that let the light shine through
Maybe "good enough" is all we ever need to pursue

Perfectionist blues, I'm gonna rewrite your song 
Break free from the loop, let my creations flow strong
No more chasin' shadows, just gotta find my peace
"Good enough" is openin' doors, a sweet release 

Diamonds in my dreams can shimmer just as bright
Even with a grain of sand, they'll catch the morning light
So goodbye perfectionist blues, I'm singin' a brand new tune
Good enough is beautiful, it's high time to bloom

Yet Do I Marvel

by Countee Cullen

I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind,
And did He stoop to quibble could tell why
The little buried mole continues blind,
Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die,
Make plain the reason tortured Tantalus
Is baited by the fickle fruit, declare
If merely brute caprice dooms Sisyphus
To struggle up a never-ending stair.
Inscrutable His ways are, and immune
To catechism by a mind too strewn
With petty cares to slightly understand
What awful brain compels His awful hand.
Yet do I marvel at this curious thing:
To make a poet black, and bid him sing!

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