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Perfect


Perfect

What does it mean to be perfect?
And why are we so
Obsessed with
Obtaining it
Pursuing it
Projecting it
Perceiving it?

To chase a thing
Means that you reinforce
It's absence.

Yet…
Can we be perfectly ourselves
And just be happy with it?
Can we be happy with the journey
And not confuse it with the destination?
Can we see perfection in the process,
And not kill the spirit
Of the poet that lives inside us?

You know the one
Afraid to write down the first word
Or the first line
Because it's considered cr@p
By others.
And so their judgment becomes
Our own.
Or worse yet
Our egos protect us
And they end up doing
More damage than good.

One way or another
Either from within
Or without
Someone is tearing us
Or our poetry
Apart.

For sometimes we confuse
Criticisms for Encouragement
Flattery for Praise
Editing for Building up
And
Tearing down for Advice

But seen as being perfectly
In our process
Of becoming
All is made whole
All is made good
And every mistake
Becomes the forger's tool
Every lesson
The Fire to strengthen
Our metal

We become works
Of art
And life.

For we are perfect.
Perfectly human.
Perfectly ourselves.

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