I wish i was perfect but then i don't. For perfect means rigid, unlearned, inexperienced. Perfect people don't live life, they float though it. NO adventures. NO mistakes. Oh really? No. The biggest mistake is to float through life with no sense of purpose. For NO Battle scars. NO Rewards.
There is a haven i crawl to and lie prostrate at. It is like wonderland. When i get there with all my imperfections, worn out from the days battles. My form changes. I get renewed, and yes i am  made perfect. This perfection supersedes the first one by infinity and more. And i choose it. I choose to be washed and cleansed to perfection by the spotless blood of the lamb. My good works i so strive to do daily are filthy rags i am tired of wearing. Emptiness. Condemnation. Guilt. Competition. Are no ways to live. Shackles or perfection? ******* or freedom? I choose to be free. Peace of mind. Genuine love. Joy unspeakable. Rest. I choose to be ME in YOU. The imperfect chosen by a perfect creator.

Learn to love people; no matter what they say.
Learn to love people; they could be having a bad day.
Learn to love people; resist the temptation to fight back.
Learn to love people; many are suffering from lack.
Learn to love people; this is a command from God above.
Learn to love people; reach out and give someone a hug.
Learn to love people!
By, Author & Poet, Sandra Juanita Nailing

dance and twirl and flail around

who cares if we look like silly clowns

knocking shelves and breaking hearts

drinking a bottle of whiskey and throwing darts

straight at brains and thoughts and love

taking the life of the pretty white dove

we run rampant like rabbits

making bad habits

destroying the world that raised us well

ignoring the cries the screams the yells

slaying the ones who love us most

and over drinks we proudly boast

then we grow up and graduate and then

some of us stay and some become men

those who remain lost and alone

allow their hearts to turn to stone

they die with tears and fears and frowns

but ****, it's fun to stay a clown

weave syntax with syntax
on the shell of her thighs
carved with lies
from the guys
who've in time learned to wry
up her mind
in the lines of your eyes
she dies

as you try
to imply
with the rye
and the rhymes
and the times

that you'll die
die alone with her every night
and despite
that no one can love her demise

she flies to her dreams every night
and she's gone