Even misanthropes freely admit they chose the other: A poem for acceptance.

I'm perfect

like the story of Hercules.

Represented by Courage and Glory,

Masculinity and Strength,

Pleasure and virtue.

Chosen by light, and

offered one of  two lives.

 

I'm perfect

like the womanizer Don Juan

So ideal to love a woman,

To kiss her like we mean it

and we do,

or we want to.

 

I'm perfect like the bathroom mirror.

It hasn't got a bump or crack.

Every edge is straight

just the way the carpenter made it.

Divine glass framed and revered

chaliced for all to behold

casing a reflection.

A reflection, so much, like my fathers.

 

I'm perfect  like the tiles on my bathroom floor,

kind enough to be impartial,

hard as stone,

friendly as a welcome mat.

Accepting of my bumps and cracks,

of my flimsy legs and weak stomach

 

I'm perfect like my brother's sweater.

The one I wear to bed.

The dirt caked, musty smell of man

like  conversion therapy.

 

I'm prefect like the serpent of the tree.

Twisting truths from my lies

Toiling lies into hopes

to make oneself  believe

that of the two lives

I choose the one most traveled...

...but I was never given that choice.

Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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