Imperfection (in its finest form)

Fri, 11/06/2015 - 10:28 -- xhxhyla

I am flawed.

 

I am the cracks in the sidewalks of busy streets

and the broken glass in the windows of forgotten buildings.

I am the shattered pottery found in ancient cities

and the sunsets of leap days that never happened.

 

I am not the sculptures displayed in grand art museums

or the photographs printed in magazines.

I am nothing like the elegant rose gardens

or the rolling hills of the countryside.

 

I am the stories of tragedy that no one talks about,

the tears that have long been soaked into the earth

to mingle with the fossils of dinosaurs

that lived in an age which man cannot remember.

 

I am the blood shed by soldiers

so that future generations may live free,

the sweat dripping from the brows of hard workers

that are desperately trying to rise to the top

but can't seem to jump from the bottom.

 

I am imperfection in its finest form.

 

I am not beautiful in an ordinary way.

 

I am flawed.

 

(but that's okay)

This poem is about: 
Me

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