I just had a vision;
of all of us @HelloPoetry poets
online around the world, reading and writing poetry.
What do we look like; this precious community?
Are we similar or vastly different?
Tall or small, dark or light, and handsome or indifferent?!

I would love to see, all of us from up high,
flourishing, or anguishing, in our creative drive.
May we collectively motivate one another,
as we strive, applaud as one hovers,
and empathise as one dives,
down, deep low, crash and burns, as we try.

Dear imperfect me,
You are your own, just be.
You wrestle with insecurity,
that you can't settle peacefully.
Dear imperfectly,
The way you are is how you're meant to be.

Don't close your eyes and pretend you can't see,
Cos when you do, you're missing free
dom, and the richness; vibrancy,
of what it means to be living, see!

  Dear imperfect me,
The devil wants you to be devastatingly,
lonely, to isolate yourself from me,
to run around, head cut off, me.
But dear imperfect me,
there's no such thing as superiority,
it's just what we do when we are achingly,
small inside, and out, dumb wittingly,
disconnected from reality.
Such a waste; insecurity, obligatory shame, we accept begrudgingly.

  Dear imperfect me,
Can we try something new, happily?
Can we live more peacefully,
seeing ourselves progressively?
As beauty wrapped, uniquely!
As unsentimentally evolving.

  Dear imperfectly perfect me,
You are, you are, who you're meant to be,
For now, until you're not; key!
Grab this truth wholeheartedly.

Brews and beats,
Dogs, with owners, walking the streets,
As locals taste the treats.
From farmers,
Butchers and bakers,
Tunes float above the crepe eaters.

Safe and sound,
As the night spun around.
Safe and sound,
Tucked in bed, love all around.
Safe and sound,
Your little head in the cloud.
Safe and sound,
You can dream and scream aloud.
Safe and sound,
Turn around, cos the boogie man's only in your mind.
You're safe and sound.

A wander, canter, gallop or trot,
Your body becomes one with the horse.
As new movements pulse, pain is forgot;
Nature’s beauty relieves pain from the source.

Silence replaces the busyness of life,
The trees sound out their own tune.
Animals show us how to live,
And their movement illuminates how we can thrive.

What would Barbi wear,
If she went to Church?
Would it be white?
Would it be a modern mini
skirt, or would it be a pantsuit?
Could she be the new high priestess,
or would she be relegated to the sinners
confession box to cast all cares?
Or would she be Hillsong's worship
redeemer, belting out blessed
croons to lull our sins'
anxiety-inducing tunes?
It would be a shimmering
rainbow-sequenced number
flowing with loving kindness.
Maybe Barbi could save the Church,
elevating it to a new perch.