No prize awaits the perfect line,
No end to chasing stars that shine.
Yet life, in whispers soft and sweet,
Is perfect where its flaws compete.

A jagged edge, a broken song,
The fleeting days both short and long.
A tender laugh, a bitter tear,
The dance of hope, the brush of fear.

Each crack upon the earth’s old face,
Each shadow in the moon’s embrace,
Reminds us there’s no need to mend
The truths that shape us in the end.

For in the chaos, beauty grows,
In every loss, a seedling sows.
Life’s perfection, wild and free,
Is simply this: to let it be.

Where is beauty in perfection?
In flawlessly done artistry?
I raise powerful objection
To such dishonest sophistry.

Give me the honest blemishes,
And the scars of vitality.
Beauty is not found in wishes
Of objects of idolatry.

The beauty’s in the crooked smile
And in the hearts of brokenness.
There’s beauty in that distinct style
Of earnestly but mismatched dress.

Beautiful is not perfection.
Beauty is beauty in itself.
Mine is another’s rejection,
I see your beauty for myself.