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who am I to try and hide
my imperfections inside
am I not perfectly
imperfectly made
do I have to be afraid of
the idea of perfection
thoughts of another
being seeing
flaws in my flawlessness
who has the right to
judge my mess
we do stare at
what is there
what is it
someone wearing played out
clothes
a booger in someone’s nose
tracks showing from a glued in
hair weave
a hair out of place
an outstanding zit
on someone’s face
who can deem it a
disgrace
who has the right to
humiliate
we are all just imperfectly
lying to be perfectly
liked by what we say
liked by what we post
trying to be the most
perfect
imperfect creature
hoping that no one
stares long enough to see
what’s perfectly not there
who are we to dare
who are we to care
who are we to stare
