"Stop gazing into the mirror, seeking validation from others' opinions. Stop worrying about what everyone else sees - your crooked teeth and off-beat smile are perfect just the way they are. Perfection is merely a perception, a screen of insecurity projecting false ideals. Children play pretend, adults play pretentious. I'd rather you show me your authentic self, flaws and all, than present a deceiving facade.
I know true perfection in my life - I see it in my art, feel it in the Bronx, and wear it on my sleeve with my family name, imperfectly spelled. Good stories don't come from glossy surfaces; they come from the mud. And honestly, I embrace your faults, flaws, and imperfections. I love them because I can't judge them. My favorite parts of you are the ones you worry about most, the parts that make your story worth telling.
Purity is boring; perfection is begging for mercy. True perfection is accepting the reflection in the mirror, honest and unapologetic. That's why I don't seek perfect people; I seek perfect moments. And I'll take broken language over perfect poetry any day. Authenticity is the real magic; it's the bright light that magnifies our true selves. So, stop chasing the unachievable and live your reality. Embrace your imperfections, and let's shine together."
About the Creator
Ken Clepper
Versatile wordsmith and history buff: poet, author, essayist, and enthusiast of the past."
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More stories from Ken Clepper and writers in Poets and other communities.
Conditioned Reflex
"I've twisted myself into knots to minimize my presence, curling up like a question mark to occupy as little space as possible. It's a delicate balance between self-effacement and invisibility. I've learned to avoid attention, to erase myself, because existing meant being in the way. I've mastered the art of silence, like a mime with helium in my heels and a mute voice box, to remain unheard. Because being heard meant chaos, and existing meant judgment.
By Ken Clepper 24 days ago in Poets
I Am a Prisoner who Dreams of Prisons
The dream always starts the same: I feel the cold bite of wind gnawing through clothes entirely inadequate to protect from the weather and I realize I am standing in line. Ahead of me and behind me are other inmates, identified by the burgundy scrubs we were issued upon arrival. I don't know where we're going.
By Kyle Cejka5 days ago in Fiction
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