"arete" poems
I am excellent.
Not because I conform
To someone else's standards,
Beliefs, or expectations of me,
But because I choose to live with integrity.
I strive to be the best I can be
Without expecting perfection.
As I am also human.
I falter and fail.
But failure is not the absence of excellence,
It is simply the cataracts that cloud my eyes
And prevent me from seeing
My own arete.
For when I look in the mirror,
All I see is dark spots, blemishes.
And no matter the angle from which I view,
I am inferior, a mistake.
I must first accept my perfect imperfection
And ask for help,
Before the flawed lenses with which I was born
Can be replaced,
And I can finally see with unwavering clarity
That I am a person of worth.
I have significance.
And though I may not always trust
What I know to be true,
It is my intrinsic value as a being,
And not a doing,
That makes me excellent.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 2:28 PM UTC
Arete,
A mountain’s peak.
The image upon which
my gaze is laid.
Your hats are sharp, lopsided.
Connections undivided
as if the edges are the spilth
of what’s originally planned:
generic blueprint of it all
known only to eyes
And ears that are open.
Arete, stay there.
Cleanse their sight
Dispelling clouds of doubts.
Reveal the entry left behind
the unimaginable youth and
bring us to a higher truth.
Jan 16, 2021
Jan 16, 2021 at 7:16 AM UTC