January 13, 2009

Tall; like they’ve got pride,
But they slouch, like something’s
Weighing them down,
Dragging them down,
Making them imperfect.
But, I don’t complain.
Who would I be if I were to say,
“I’m perfect.”
I’m not perfect.
I’m imperfect.
So are my boots
Who rise to touch my knees,
But fall back down with each false motive.
And in these boots,
I walk in my imperfections.
Because nothing is ever certain,
And no footprint is ever set in stone.

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