Imperfections cut us like a heated knife
Cuts through all that we are not
Not the perfect man or women
You don't got the 6 pack abs
Or the curves that men desire
So what if you do or don't have it all?
You see the thing is
All we really do is
Worry about what we don't have
And compare ourselves to those who do
What's the point of living your life
If you're in the shadow of someone else?
We're born to be who we are
And not a slave in the shadow of our master's understood?
There is no such thing as "Perfection"
Perfection itself is the peak of insecurity
The more perfect you are, The less mistakes you can make
Because the moment you slip up
The sky falls down
And you become the center
Of shame on social media
So why do we achieve to be something we're not?
We run away from who we are
Yet all it does is make us more depressed.
Our views of both men and women are warped
Men are supposed to be ripped with abs
And women are supposed to be seductresses
And we the youth of this generation
Believe and bow down to all this bullshit
Like it's the gods speaking during an sermon.
You are who you are
There is no changing that
Embrace who you are
You can only hide behind a facade for so long
So come out of hiding now
When it's easier and less harm to your self-esteem
We look at ourselves and disgust is what we taste
But we take for granted who we are
You lose yourself in the shoes of others
You forget who you are
Pity yourself for not being perfect
But most important of all
You begin to disgrace yourself
The self hate sits in like bitter medicine
The cuts on your body cry scarlet
And yet all this insignificance
Costs you your life that has more importance
Than what you are or aren't.
Everything is imperfect-
Between your eyes.
The crooked white
Inside your half-smile.
Paper-cutting scissor bangs
That frame your face.
You chopped them late
In a dim lit bathroom.
Flickering neon against the blade.
Tucking tounge under breath,
Chunks of midnight strands
Refracting grey-silver dreams
Fell to the floor like splinters
Hurled from breaking wood.
With crescent moons
Formed on each cheek,
The mirror smiled.
Love, by design, is miraculous
It's purpose is to remove
Any sudden paroxysm of rage
Drawn from the tangled web of emotion
Spun from fear, resentment and despair
Making the pledge of a heart
For a lifetime of loyal dedication
Seems futile, when somewhere down that road
You lose everything you long for
Destroying the fortified souls of angels
It seems so easy for you to walk away
Hide behind your languid affection
While apathetic to my spiritual desire
Completely oblivious to the damage
The black heart you own is doing
Turn back the clock to a time
Before I can remember you
Perhaps, take me in a different direction
Our worlds will not collide
If I never even know you
If all that’s open to me
Is the fear of being exploited
I shall revert to the disconsolate
Bewildered state I'm comfortable with
At least, if it were possible, I could
It's ironic that through these crestfallen years
Cruelly, no one but you can dry my tears
Love yourself and appreciate your form
You're the one that fully knows what you've been through, every storm
You know how you've been fighting, how you are staying strong
Don't let anyone tell you where you should only belong
They would mock you,they would laugh
They would make you feel that you will never be enough
Society is always gonna say that
you're too short, you're too tall
you're too thick , you're too thin
But honey, always remember, having a flaw,an imperfection
was, is , and will never be a sin
Backspace means nobody will see
Paper tears bit by bit with erasures
but on MS Word there are no consequences
My poems are full of backspaces
There was one right when I types backsapce
When you don[t backspqace notjng makes sense
Bu t what is life withoiut mistakes?
Silence is a life without any sound
Did I stutter? Then sing with me
Beautiful babies are something mistaken
Mother's are sometimes mistaken
Blasphemies are sometimes mistaken
The flat earth is something mistaken
I can be mistaken
with your imperfect edges
you are perfect enough
to be filled in
you may be cracked
you may be broken, even
but what matters is
you know how to put yourself
you're holding yourself up
and you can see your old crack marks
emphasized from the gold
but that only adds to your life story
of how you became whole again
many people think brokenness
but it's an art
when you realize you can fix yourself
you know you're unbreakable within
so just be and stay you
I only became free
when I lost my sense of grammar
when I forgot how to punctuate
and I didn't follow a rhyme scheme.
I let the letters place themselves
and the words chose themselves
the poetry wrote itself
problems solved themselves
my heart healed itself
I became free when I finally learned
that the poetry is not in perfection
but in the broken words that lie on the page
delivered by my ink-stained hands
from a broken soul and an imperfect heart.
I was only free when I realised
that the broken and imperfect words
made up the perfect poem.
Made up the perfect me.