January 2, 2010
At it’s highest peak,
Is beauty,
For, where is the beauty in being perfect?
In avoiding the sweet liberty of making mistakes?
Saccharine imperfection,
Tasteing it on the tip of my tounge,
Rolling it around and over so that my entire body soaks it up and realizes-
It’s not be perfect,
It’s O.K. to be me;
Just me,
And no one but myself.
Looking in the mirror,
I grin at my imperfect reflection,
Knowing that I’m not going to stress about it,
Or starve myself trying to reach perfection,
When being imperfect,
is just fine,
with me.
Nor am I going to cry and complain over what a tangled mess my hair is,
Or that I can’t quite pick an outfit to make the “in-crowd” approve of,
Because maybe I LIKE being different,
It’s a gift you see,
Being able to flaunt the beautiful imperfections I have,
And scream at the world,
Showing off,
Proud of being the VERY imperfect me.

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