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"Become perfect."
My eyes are glazed over
Delicate glass tears blur my vision
I promise."
Naveen Malhotra Oct 2020
Science measures
Assumes one more
Bella Hadid
Most beautiful
94.35% perfect face
Perfection measurement
So accurate
Didn't adhere to
Rounded figure
Don't know
The yardstick
God isn't
Why should He
Create perfect things?
He isn't mad
Denigrate His status
He cast man, woman
In His own Image
Distorted, imperfect though
There's nothing
Equivalence it's
We consider
Potential always there
You can be like Him
Testicles, ovaries
Have strength?
You be Him!
tia Oct 2020
"my body is tired with torn hands
I want to be perfect, more and more
but nothing changes, it only ever hurts"

"when will you be happy?"

"never... I live miserably,
wanting to work myself to exhaustion
waiting for death's release of this worthless vessel
that hates me deeply
perishing underneath dirt and pebble
no one will want me, need me
I will be forgotten and my ideals of perfection soon to be rotten"
Alec Astaire May 2020
To be mundane and in love is all I could ask for,
Simple minded in my pleasures instead of always striving to get more

To be content with my shortcomings as if they never even existed,
Dreaming towards such grounded goals, so attainable I could not miss it

My one true wish is for simpler bliss- a lower bar for jubilation
So that I might have an actual chance to experience self-actualization
Colm Jan 2020
In time, imperfect being knows itself at such
And still accepts that it is
And isn't so much
That which is immediately wanted and more
For all could become in time, in time
So much more than that we ever were before
The point being... we all can grow and change. If you want yourself to be, you probably will. So take responsibly for who you've become.
Saige Jan 2020
Worms were never appealing to you -
seeds, berries, echos, and ghosts you preferred.
And kindred spirits and misty mornings.

I remember I found you alone -
your brothers and sisters strewn around you,
like dead leaves in the fall -
a whisper of their bird-song
still sighing on the wind.

So I held you in my shirt's breast pocket,
and whistled while I knitted a nest.
Just a little bundle of grass and string
but you settled in.

I thought you would sing sad songs in the evenings,
like the wise women that sat on porch swings.
But you just mourned with soulful eyes,
haunted by the shadows of your past.

You waited for something,
a memory, a word, a release.
I saw the knowing in you then -
the knowing of much more than life and death,
than seeds and windows and metal bars.

And I sighed.
How much I long for my own release,
not from life, no:
from my own expectations,
from single-stories and stereotypes.

Let me fly free, you cry.
You're too much like me, I sigh.
Farzaneh Qaf Jan 2020
She was a perfectionist
And Sadness was in the process to its summit
Grey Dec 2019
I try
So hard
To be perfect.

And yet
I fail
Every time.
Tom Atkins Dec 2019
Yours is the art of the broken.
Always patching. Always aware
that nothing and no one is perfect,
least of all you, that all things
are in a state of constant repair
and readjustment, never quite
and likely to never be quite, and so
you paint, you write, you stumble
in public, one of the broken masses
only louder than most,
less willing to hide the cracks,
or perhaps only, less able.

You have no plan.
An age of plans have blown up in your face
time and time again, mocking
your presumption, finally able
to simply be, simply do,
less a creature of inspiration
than a plugger, stuck with
your inability to surrender,
a construction worker building happiness
one mess at a time.
I have been in my art studio for just at a year now. The picture shows what I started with. It’s actually my favorite picture of the studio, mess and all, complete with the presumption, in the form of the sign on the table, that it would become more.

Now it is a working place, with tables and easels and a whole slew of half-finished work and paintings on the wall, always in a state of flux as my thoughts and work changes and grows, as I get things right and get things wrong.

It’s not a perfect studio. Not particularly photogenic. You’ll probably never see it in an issue of better homes and studios. But it’s mine. It’s me. Gloriously, loudly, imperfect.

This morning, I read an article about how the search for perfection kills the good. I’ve lived that one. Never again. Now, it’s just about progress. Growth. One step at a time. One day at a time. How did I grow today? What did I try? What did I risk? What can I learn from it all?

It’s a different life. At times harder and at times easier. But I am so much happier with it. At 64, I cannot recall being this close to happiness. And for a depressed guy, that’s a big statement.

A lot of that has to do with the woman I love. She is so honest, so real, so loving. Able to let me struggle and she shares her own, leaving me with no doubt, none at all, of the depth of her love.

And if we are mostly adult children (And I believe we are), that kind of total love is life-saving. Stumbling is never fatal. Grace lives.

Be well. Travel wisely,

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