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