We do not fight to become perfect but to perfect our imperfection.
- Manuela Camporaso

Sarah Lane Apr 15

How insulting to You, precious Lord, I have been.
My efforts are spent seeking to please merely men.
Although, they're as imperfect and lowly as I,
Yet, I’ve held their unworthy opinions too high.
When my attention should be set firmly on You,
Who appreciates all that I am and I do.
It wavers when I look into judgmental eyes
And fear of mistakes creates Your presence’ disguise.
Consuming frustration! I will never be free,
If I try to determine what they think and see.
Genuine satisfaction can only be found
After losing myself in a worship unbound.
My heart’s open to You but to man it is sealed.
Only there, my perfection through Christ is revealed.

Written in 2002 during my first year as a professional ballerina. I wanted so badly to please that it became immobilizing at times. I became more insecure and, consequently, I struggled briefly with anorexia.
kiyomitube1234 Apr 13

Petals, plucked by "he loves me"s and "he loves me not"s,
Roses, the symbol of perfect love and eternal beauty.

Such a bright vermillion, matching
Such a dulcet aroma with
Such a charismatic lust
Emerging from layers of velvet.

Maiden's lips resemble it so, as if
Nature graced it with its own paintbrush.
Drops of dainty words and heavenly sighs escape like
Drops of dew in the calm of light at dawn.

A scent of eros romance
Rings around her neck and wrists, able to
Entrance any passersby.
Beauty of those able to challenge Aphrodite,
Whom wishes to lacerate gradually,
Fueled by hatred and jealousy.

Fair, both skin and hair.
Poise as an angel with a
Face to match.
Eyes say otherwise, however.

Yes, she is a rose, but
Even roses have thorns.

Alan Brown, thank you for teaching me a new word: vermillion.
Nylee Feb 28

From when we were young
We always craved perfect
perfect marks , perfect grace
perfect height , perfect face
perfect job, perfect pay
perfection in everything we do
perfect partner , perfect home residence
and we thought everything will all be easy
Never did we define the perfection
We just want the best !

As we grew older, in the world of imperfection
With our flaws and faults , trying to fulfil our plan
We saw failures and heartaches
broken dreams and shaken hope
disappointments and regrets
every form of imperfection
The world felt too cruel and heartless
It was tough to deal with reality
Trying to be content with everything less
It was not something we were prepared for .

Perfection is but a beautiful ugly illusion
Imperfection is the truth of life
We have to accept it , to live happy
To live without regret , jealousy, envy .
This poem too has flaws!

Illusions of skydiving in a kimono
are not nightmares that awaken her
in a sweat each night

Fantasies of floating like a drone
creep into morning daydreams

Unprepared for make-believe
no kimono hangs in her closet

Each day she stands in front
of her full-length mirror
stares at perceived imperfections
as they thicken before her eyes

Friends don’t notice
each misplaced mole
or cellulite pleading
to hide from any
audience

Co-workers notice her
post-it-note headline

“Intelligent Perfect Women
Skydives in Kimono”

affixed to the cubicle wall

Today results of
her search for kimonos
of various colors
is carefully placed in
a folder entitled skydiving

My wife wonders where the idea for this poem came from.  My answer - I have no idea.

Everyone comes with scars,
But you can love them away.
I told you that I wasn't perfect,
You told me the same
'You don't get it, I have-
Scars on my skull
Cuts on my thighs
Eyes full of hurt
And a mouth full of lies'
'I love you, imperfections and all',
You said
But a month later,
Everything changed
You looked at me with disgust-
Like I was shit on legs
'I'm breaking up with you',
You said
'Why', I asked
'You're not perfect, I don't love you'
Hysterical sobs, at the loss of-
What I thought was love
'But I love you!',
I screamed at the closed door,
For you walked out on me
Your previous words meant nothing
I'm not worth loving, why?
The scars on my skull
The cuts on my thighs
My eyes full of hurt
My mouth full of lies
The pain you caused,
Hurt more than the fresh cuts-
I just made
These were dedicated to you
Etched into my skin,
The perfect reminder of the pain you caused
'I love you' it said,
Used my blood to make-
a small heart on my tear-stained cheek
Then I slashed both wrists
They were dedicated to you
I love you
Hours later, remembering something-
You left
Found me lying there,
With the note cut into my hand,
'I love you' it said
The perfect reminder of the pain you caused

Crimsyy Oct 2016

Did you drop into existence,
light as a feather,
or did you make the world implode
with your erupting presence?
300 million years ago,
animal but human,
human and needy,
riding on backs of giants
to travel to farwaway places,
and then soaring...

Extracting anger and desperation,
tying yourself tight to an image of hope,
to an image of transformation,
so we humans can only desire
to be worthy of your donation...

Nothing flusters you,
and even though your wings
are both blue,
there is nothing sad about you.

You tuck away the empty chasms
of a soul made to feel too old,
made to feel that it should not
aspire to be the sun,
but merely its shadow...
and you paint their
switched off, tired eyes
with ineffable hues of strength.

Dragonfly, you show me
that through your years,
you've cried and you
fought your battles and
some old parts of you died...
and you showed me that
rebirth and imperfection
aren't missing but whole,
that mess isn't haunted
or unwanted but needed
for exploration...

If every particle of ours,  every chemical
that went into a single thought
could be stored away in its designed,
picturesque room,
how could we claim to be mysteries?

Dragonfly, now it's my turn
to give away my pieces of decay,
let them burn.
You are expectedly lingering at my window,
you've always been,
and I'll no longer keep you waiting.

s Oct 2016

from the beginning of our lives

we are pure

we are innocent

until you get your first scraped knee

or broken bone

your skin and bones are no longer pure of imperfection

these imperfections go from one thing to another

one by one

you slowly become more and more impure

until one day

that boy

the boy you thought loved you

loved you the way you loved him

gets what he wants

taking your last form of purity from you

and leaves

leaving you with impaired judgment

you are no longer pure

you are imperfection

Ravanna Dee Oct 2016

Now, why don't you stop looking,
at all your little imperfections.
Torturing yourself
with all your differences.
Because, sweetheart,
your bigger picture
is more real,
more unique,
and infinitely more stunning
with them.
Every artist knows
that it's the smallest details
that make a picture valuable.
They make up what is you.
And that is beautiful

It's always the smallest of things we find we dislike. However, those small things are also what make us different. And being different in a world of carbon copies is amazing. You are amazing in all your flaws. Remember this.
Timothy Langley Aug 2016

A small imperfection is growing bigger
I try to cover it
But it always shows through
And it looms in the presence of every achievement I deliver
Holding as hostage the enjoyment I'm due

copyright August 27, 2016 by Timothy Langley *all rights reserved
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