Beautiful imperfections..

I am in all poetic mood today!

We dont get to choose many things in our lives.. our colour, our looks, our race, our parents, not even our name! So why do we critize ourself for the imperfections we have in us? for, every person who truly loves you will see beneath those imperfections or even see it as.. beautiful imperfections.. Seeing the youtube views, I presume almost everyone should have seen the this ad on funeral, a wive was reading her husband's eulogy and beautifully crafts it with the imperfections he had in him, which made her life perfect =)


Beautiful Imperfections..

Wearing a mask melded into a face.
The need to be cool feels like losing a race.
Earrings, makeup, tattoos and fake tans.
Drinking only water and diet sodas from cans.

The beautiful inperfections in haste we cover.
Drawing focus to one blemish so they don't see the other.
Girls who spend hours infront of the mirror.
Hiding their ages as if their death draws nearer.

So worried that if we're ugly that we'll never be loved.
Afraid that if we're not perfect we'll be pushed away or shoved.
Rejection is what all we people do fear.
The makeup can't be ruined so we won't shed a tear.

The beautiful imperfection is haste we cover
Drawing focus to one feature so they don't see the other.
What if we all just took off our masks?
Then beauty would change and we would be free at last.

What I really admire about her..

No sense of guilt. at all! haha.. god bless her.. I sincerely dedicate this poem written by John Betjeman to you my dear... for, its something you never had. I dont mean this sarcastically, I am not judging, I am just amused by the way you live your life, without looking back at what you have done..

Guilt

The clock is frozen in the tower,
The thickening fog with sooty smell
Has blanketed the motor power
Which turns the London streets to hell;
And footsteps with their lonely sound
Intensify the silence round.

I haven't hope. I haven't faith.
I live two lives and sometimes three.
The lives I live make life a death
For those who have to live with me.
Knowing the virtues that I lack,
I pat myself upon the back.

With breastplate of self-righteousness
And shoes of smugness on my feet,
Before the urge in me grows less
I hurry off to make retreat.
For somewhere, somewhere, burns a light
To lead me out into the night.

It glitters icy, thin and plain,
And leads me down to Waterloo-
Into a warm electric train
Which travels sorry Surrey through
And crystal-hung, the clumps of pine
Stand deadly still beside the line.