In a society, image is everything. You are judged from the people you hang out with, the things you do, the clothes you wear.  People shout out that the boy sitting in the corner of gym class is too fat or whisper about how that girl down the hall is far too skinny.  The head of the dance team is told she has one too many curves and should not be “poppin’ and lockin’” with so much confidence, yet the cheerleader is criticized for her petite stature and flat chest.  The boy with the glasses?  He gets bullied daily for his lack of social activity, meanwhile the football **** is faking his confidence and putting on a persona simply to hold up his high school reputation.

Children grow up with the assurance that beauty is on the inside, and that what is on the outside doesn’t matter, yet this statement has proven itself to be false time and time again.  These children were lied to.  You were lied to.  I was lied to. The world is cruel.  It is judgmental and ignorant.  People are turned down their dream jobs over the most miniscule stupidities, such as the fact that they have a tattoo on their arm or because their hair is purple.  You are judged at every corner of your journey, and your world will always revolve around the physicality of how you look.  

No matter how many people believe that appearance is of little importance, there is always a whole world behind them willing to prove them wrong.  But that doesn’t mean we cannot dream.  Dream.  That’s all it is.  That promise that who you are on the inside is enough? It’s all a dreamful desire to look past the image your body presents.  And if dreaming is the only hope we have at being seen as our true self, than you better believe I’m going to keep on dreaming.

Because of the picture society has set out for me, I’ve constantly looked in the mirror seeing nothing but a disappointment.  Every day I find a new flaw, and every day, I realize I am even further from perfection.  But if I can dream that who I am on the inside is enough, than maybe I can become one of the first perfect imperfections out there.

You see, I have never wanted to be perfect, nor do I want to now.  Quite honestly, I don’t believe that perfection exists.  It is a myth.  And yet, everyone seems to be reaching to the stars, going out of their way to attain even the smallest ounce of this so called perfectionism.  Whatever you are reaching for, stop.  Stop and hear me out.  

Beauty is neither from within nor without.  Right is neither in this way nor in that way.  And perfection is neither in your world or mine.  Because we are one in the same.  And the only way to be what our society is calling perfect is to be as imperfect as possible.  Be yourself, because no matter what you do, I can promise you that you will be judged. With every step you take, expect a shadow to crawl up behind you and tell you are doing it wrong.  Expect to be an outcast and to not fit in “perfectly.” Expect to be criticized and ridiculed, because it will happen anyways.  Why are you going to strive to be perfect and risk losing yourself, when you can simply embrace each and every flaw to create the most beautiful imperfection possible?  Don’t live to please others.  Don’t strive to be perfect when perfection is nonexistent.  Embrace what your mamma gave you and rock each imperfection like it is no one else’s business. Because in the end, this is your dream, and being the captain of your own voyage is the only way to make it worth it.  It is the only way to become perfectly imperfect.

You can experience it
Coming from most of
The writers around the
Block of Writers Block
Only to be saved by the
Bunch of Writers from
The Writers' Block.

They can call you names,
Ranging from A ******
To A Grammar ****.
But don't be put off,
Don't be put out,
Just hold on.
Hold your ground.

You might have OCD,
The Obsessive Compulsive Disorder,
Don't worry - just channel it well.
Channel it well and play your tunes,
Don't worry about the runes,
They will be all covered with ink.
Yes, the electronic ink.

For all eternity, they say,
You can never achieve perfection,
And it should not concern you.
Just remember your wordlust,
Coin new and better words,
Just play your sweet lute.
Yes, you are so cute.

"What's so cataclysmic about the apostrophe?"
You asked me,
And legitimately so.
It's the difference 'tween us,
Perfection and poets,
Godliness and humaneness.
Divinity and profanity.

"Yes, perfection is sacrilege,"
I say, "Perfection is an ambition,"
"Of humanity and nature."
I take a deep breath before saying,
"In the knowledge available,"
"It's just a figment."
You ask me, "Where is it located?"

I say:
Find it 'fore some letters,
You can find it afta' some letters,
Lockin'n'poppin words together,
The apostrophe is so savoury & flexible
I just hope that I never become,
A Grammar Apostate -
I'll rather be ill instead.

They say act is the blossom of thought
So I'm pop lockin'
Boogaloo Shrimpin' with the hair do and what not
Level of beast? Never
I 'm caught in the war zone
This concrete jungle, Quantum sea aLive in stereo
Go with the flow
Made with Love like moms cooking,
Soul music, Knowledge and Kronik,
Plus the cold brewtus
Drums smashing leave a ***** and eye jammy
Eye and eye, Marley
Rasta fire Space Jammin'...

dilated pupils
heated skin
amazing skills
a hell lot of sin
beating hearts
***** talkin'
tasting tarts
lips lockin'
burning desire
heightening senses
a spread fire
in love soaked lenses
hands all around
still not enough
blindfolded and bound
in the lust cuffs
a **** is she
or a ***** you call
a wanton spree
rising to fall
in a pleasure so deep
so raw so forbidden
a secret she'll keep
and stay hidden
filled with shame
her wildness she tames

frothin often off a noddin
rhythmic tic talkin bout a
slick jottin my emission rotten
might've missed the molten
lava lockin in on the object
at Hansel fox be fraudened
ever notve options options
option noticed pick a posted
motive open focus loctus slick
as any loaded pistol poppin
clip the clifford dog a goddess
wouldnt wonton all before i open
shop an let em purchase trodden
liquids made for robbin
ickness on a spot spit click
ticky torn a crop fore i
sloppily gotta beast a beat and
bee and be a modesty atleast
to honey makin prodigies
before i lead this oddesy.