Parts of my imperfection

 

As I stare into the reflection of my own
I cannot find peace
I seek my imperfection
So I start with my face as each scar, pimple and scratch tells a story
These are not belongings in existence of our glory
This is mostly part of a visible flaw
This is not like the pictures they draw
Looking at my neck
Going down all the way down to my back 
In all discovery it is the exact crafts of imperfection 
Starting at the tip of my fingers all the way up to my arms
These are not part of society’s charms
This brings me closer to the measurement of my shoulders
It is wide with the duty to protect me like soldiers
In countless opportunities of failure I observe “the crave”
The one identified for ear-piercing words such as take me to the grave
Certainly this is the flawless part of my imperfection
Why do they call it thighs?
When all they do is end up in fights
It is so big they can’t even stand side by side
Wearing baggy garments just so they can hide
Away from the inconsiderate then it brings the attention to the feet
The most gracious gift although they not perfect at least it moves to a beat
These are all parts of my imperfection

This poem is about: 
Me

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