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 sit down and freeze my pen,
I tear the unfinished poem apart.
I take a breath and open the shades,
I run outside to finish the poem.

Looking behind,
into my past.
The emotions.
The tears.
The poems.
I dwelled on what I felt,
and possibly did not.
I wrote of deep sadness,
and the agony of a fragile heart.
I was lacking something.

That something,
was joy.
Yes,
I have always been a gentle soul.
Never much anger,
only a small pinch of frustration.
But you see,
it had never meant much
because I dwelled on that sadness.
We become so caught up in these
small insignificant set backs..
that we forget the joy,
that is life.

I have all the typical needs in life.
Food.
Water.
Shelter, a family, friends,
and most importantly Jesus in my heart.
I have more than I could want.
Sometimes,
I become obssesed in the items,
the price, and glamour.

As I sit hear,
coffee in my hand,
I have come to a realization.
I have everything I could need and want.
I lacked appreciation.
Each day,
I hope to continue forward and count my wonderful blessings.

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.

Deep,
from within,
a spark is lit inside your heart.
Pure joy is there.
You may not always know,
or be capable to explain,
but it is there.
He has blessed you.
Oh how has his joy consumed you.
For Jesus loves you.

I am one of the game,
which was given the name of chess.
Think,
you are observing the newest
attraction at the store along the block.
The pieces,
oh you can see your reflection,
for they are polished to the tip.
The joy it brings upon ones' face,
to place it on the dinning table.

Kings,
Queens.
Bishops.
You carefully push aside,
the box's front.
The pieces sprawled out,
your fingers discovering new textures
of each piece.

A single pause,
as you lift something small from.
Not just one,
several.
But none have the same glimmer,
as the more powerful pieces.
For,
I am one of those pieces.

You organize the board.
Your board.
The pieces aligned,
no error.
Which piece shall we begin with?
The queen?
Oh she can go anywhere!
As far as she pleases!
Oh,
but that is much too simple.
She has freedom.
Much great control.
The bishop?
Oh no,
not quite.
You must first,
move through those several small pieces.
The easiest.
Not quite useful.
But indeed,
you will first move..
the pawn.

You pride that pawn.
Moving it one square.
Then another.
One more.
Hmm..
Now it is not blocking yet another piece..
A powerful,
beautiful new piece.
For,
you have gotten your use from that pawn.
It can go.
So,
you let it go.

I am the pawn.
The easiest.
Not quite useful.
But indeed,
you will first move..
the pawn.

Releasing a huge sigh,
in the greatness known as,
relief.
For I finally began to speak to myself,
and I spoke and said,
"You can."