One day, while getting ready, I looked in the mirror
And I saw my legs blow up to twice their size
So I quickly left to change my ripped pants
Wiping away the tears in my eyes

And the next day I returned to this mirror
And my face had a dark shade of red
So I shut all of the windows in my house
And hid under the covers of my bed

And whenever I went out in public
I could swear everyone was looking at me
And I knew I wasn't human anymore
For a monster was all they could see

So I kept my head down
Throwing piles of unfitting clothes on the floor
I would probably grow monster-like tentacles for my arms
Or monster-like claws to scratch all the doors

Then I couldn't stand the sight of me
So I shut off all the lights and shut out the sound
But I could still see about one hundred reflections of myself
In the shattered mirror on the ground.

I've heard many people ponder on the power of words
But to me they only hold little strength
They're like tree roots that can't reach deep at all
Or a winged angel with no rank

Maybe they're powerful when other people write them
Maybe their word choice is more precise
But if so, then I don't believe words
Should have a certain chance of being strong, just a rolling of a dice

But this shouldn't bother me, it's my fault for choosing weak words
But I could never find a word that surely wouldn't make my mind melt
Oh, but if I wrote just a little bit better
You could truly feel what I've felt.

She is beautiful.
She sits alone, solitary.
Fragrence flows from her flesh,
yet she still sits, breathing the air of the valley.

Delicate she is,
her petals billow in the wind.
She is perfection.
A lie could never fall from her tounge.

Xochitl, flower.
Flower...
shes so sickiningly sweet.
Delicate, sweet, perfect.

When she bloomed she sung.
A magestic hymn that rung through the valley.
One day she'll wilt, her petals falling to the ground.
One day her song will stop.

A unique glint compels the eye
Towards desolation
Pluck a stone from the desert floor
For examination

Would faceting reveal a prize?
Do its flaws void its worth?
Could it ever shine so brightly
It seems not of this earth?

Yet inclusions of baser stuffs
Are threaded through its veins
Harsh mineral imperfections
Which this beauty contains

They cannot be excised, you see
It would transform the stone
Into a hollow, pitted thing
So best leave it alone

Just drop it back into the sand
With spots you so abhor
Another hand will pick it up
One who can love it more

O Lord, I am thy workmanship;
     And shall the *** of clay
     Unto the potter say,
Dash me to dust, for I've a chip?
                              Nay.

Perhaps the potter uses scraps
     For purposes the ***
     Would likely like a lot
If he but knew.  Perhaps.  Perhaps
                              Not.

The only imperfection is the mirror.
The only way the reflection is the same
is if you believe it.

An imperfection

is a shadow in your life --


with thanks to the sun.