I just stand there out in the open. You always walk past me. I'm sure you don't see me. You see what you want and not what's there. When you look my way, it's a look I know all too well. I'm an imperfection in this world. A blemish. A problem. A cause for bad luck. But as you look at me that way, you miss the true imperfections. Then, in the end, you become the imperfection you say others are.
February 12, 2009