Recreated, changing as the leaf turns reddish
In the unholy season, hated, dishonored
Left over, unsightly, possessed by sinful souls, they said, or might be dead they were.
As they were given heather under the autumn rain,
Neither cold nor hot was it,
Frightened by the uncontrol they own over it,
The power of doubt they concede over our whole planet actually?
Is it that the human craves so much of his own energy?
As if, controlling things made him feel better
Unpredictable things somehow made him sick, even scared which deeply means that he’s not perfect
Humans can’t be perfect after all, right?
So why are we even trying to be flawless?
To ignore our nature, the imperfections that used to make us beautiful, special.
Yes, controlling what we cannot would allow us to heal ourselves in some way
To feed our sick, twisted fantasies of power over the meek
Over the ones we live amongst
The unpredictable shows no promises to us
And we loathe being faced with our insecurities in every nook and cranny, as only the unpredictable can do
And those insecurities, those FLAWS do not make us beautiful
The cracked, dry palms of green make me beautiful
The endless supply of silicone at my disposal makes me be Beautiful,
Makes us all beautiful
We are not flawed individuals
We beseech the approval from the blind eye of the wandering mind that holds what is perfection and what is not each day
And when we no longer fit we conform
You say to me perfection is nonexistent among our kind but tell me--
Who are you that judges our perfection?
Certainly not the God who has become the butt of many sacrilegious jokes
Certainly not one above who has observed my deeds
Who are you to say my perfection is unattainable?
With a life's worth of worship to all worldly possessions I could be perfect.
Tell me, what is it that could be so profound about flaws that you stick by them?
