I sought the Lord
And found Him in the oddest place,
I found Him in my broken heart.

you caught my eye
  you made me like you
    you made me fall in love with you
      you took my love as a simple perk of life
        you used me and beat me down
          you robbed me of love for anyone else or myself
            you killed the happy person inside of me
              you made me numb inside
                you made me feel like i deserved nothing but sadness
                  you may not love me anymore but i certainly still do
                    i still love you
                      i know it's not healthy for me to love you
                        i know i need to stop
                          i know but i can't
                            i can't
                          i can'
                        i can
                       i ca
                      i c
                    i

Searching through the boxes for some books.
I was standing there wondering how it all looks?  
The kiss we had before we parted,
Will always be something that I will keep it guarded.

The moments we shared were for sometime,
Even though it was nothing still it had some life.
The beauty of what we have shared,
It never was confounding and/ or snared.

I will fondly remember your beautiful smile,
My loneliest hours were made worthwhile.
You have made me feel good in a way,
The guitar solo in the back on the first day.

We are flying to our separate continents,
Will only can meet if there is a providence.
Whatever the future may unfold for us,
Will you remember me with a sweet blush?

Poetry.
Beauty in each rhythmic line.
Beauty in the eyes of the author.
Beauty in the eyes of the reader.
A sigh of relief and pride,
shall always come to the face of the author,
as another pencil is set down after a masterpiece.

Poetry.
Paint as words.
Feeling as shortened breaths.
Sadness as a fantasized character.

Poetry.
"It's only for the emotional."
"The weak"
"Those who can't find another way to solve their problems, so they bury us in it."

The poet.
The poet does not always require sadness lagging on their heart,
to produce a blossoming garden of inspiration.
Poems share meaning,
with those who seek and understand it.
Poets can be oh so full,
of pure joy.
Poems can express happiness for each blade of grass,
in which we walk on barefoot in the summers.

The poet.
Our lives are not lacking color and liveliness.
We write to help others.
To aid in a crazy chaotic world.
Happy.
Sad.
We inhabit together.

I have set my norm,
as writing to what is my comfort.
But today,
I decided to take an unknown path.
Today,
I will tell
how wonderful it is to be imperfect.

"Save it for your blog"
But dear friend,
it needs to be heard.
Perhaps,
the only way some will listen,
is through rhythmic lines.

Lay down.
Close your eyes.
Now tell me,
what is the definition of perfection.
Being tall?
Skinny?
Have perfect grades?
Popular?

You,
yes you.
Tell me your ideal "perfection."
Now you,
yes you over there.
What is your ideal image of being oh so perfect?

Both of you now give your attention.
Would you believe,
that both their definitions we not in accord?
What a concept.
How we as humans,
get strung up on the concept,
of being the "ideal human."
When in reality,
how can we create the concept of "perfection" if we all give it different definitions?

What is your greatest fear?
Your weakness?
It is okay,
say it in a whisper.
I am here to inform,
not pass judgement.

Now you,
yes ALL of you.
Tell me your talents.
Shout them to the sky.
Tell me what you find your greatest feature.
Flaunt it.

Let me tell you a little secret,
if you could not already tell above all the yells of pride,
every single person named something DIFFERENT.
You.
You.
And YOU.
You are magnificent.
Beautiful.
Your flaws and weaknesses,
make up something imperfect.
Something wonderfully imperfect.
Something that is you.
All of you.

Here's a thought, if imperfect is just as being perfect?
And we're all imperfect,
then we all must be..

Perfect.

You sighed so much
your lungs almost collapsed.

Is existing the same
as living?

You tell yourself
that "today is the day"
day after day
after day
after day

But depression drags you
back to your bed.
It tells you
"there's another day"