The Epitome of Imperfect Perfection

The name of my people is "Hmong"

and we are self-dubbed "The Free" -

whatever that means.

But contrary to the lies,

the stereotyps,

and the idealized,

I have big brown eyes

that shine brighter any color of the sky.

Because I am proud

and I wear my race on my tan skin

that I don't have to achieve by soaking up the sun.


I work hard,

picking up shards of my heart,

trying to outsmart those

whose noses are too high.


Sometimes I lose myself;

my head gets too big -

full of ideas.

But I find myself again,

and I fight for myself

and my people,

but there will be no sequel.


The ending of the book called "My Life"

will be the death of me,

but even still,

I will not bow down

and drown

in the sea of standards

set by the supremacy.


I am my own,

and flawless at that.

I don't need to hear lies

to move on with life.

It is not me who is flawed,

but the metality of those who seek blood.

Guide that inspired this poem: 


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