(Picture) Perfect-ly Imperfect
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Picture Perfect-ly Imperfect
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I wish I were that pretty.
I wish I were that witty.
I wish… “Oh hey yeah I’m great!
How are you?”
We put on a show.
If someone were to ask
“How was your day?”
We’d say it was okay
and lie to their face
because we can’t really convey
how we feel.
Or how we really look.
Or who we really are.
But why not?
I’m a dreamer.
I love to pretend
that I already know
how my story will end.
I’m a thinker.
I think school is cool
and word games are fun
and I’d rather do a puzzle
than go for a run.
I take risks,
if only for the thrill,
but I would be just as happy
to lay low and chill.
Those things are visible even with a filter.
What isn’t?
I’m scared.
Scared of what the future might bring.
I’m scared God will give me a test
and I won’t know a thing.
I’m sensitive.
I’d like to think I have thick skin
but it’s actually pretty thin
and that’s how it’s always been.
I care what they think.
“They” being the never-ending line of people that I meet.
Every
Single
One.
I’m insecure.
I’m my biggest critic
and about everything I do
I am analytic.
Baring my soul,
my deepest insecurities.
Mind-numbingly difficult.
But also thrilling.
Writing this poem?
A risk.
But who doesn’t love a good thrill?