Faulty

A Poem

I am not good enough

I cannot dance, nor can I draw

I cannot run fast, or catch a ball

I cannot match my shirt to my pants

And I cannot flow down a lazy river without wondering what comes next

If you told me I was perfect

I would know for a fact

Perfection cannot be achieved

For I am a rat

Afterall, I cannot dance

Nor can I catch a ball

And so here I write, my hands on the keys

Hitting sensors to put strange symbols on a glass screen

For I cannot dance, or run super fast

I cannot strike a match

My mother says I’m exactly the way I should be

My father agrees

My friends say it too

Yet I don’t believe

For I cannot dance

Cannot catch a ball

I can’t flow down the stream

With no stress at all

My standards, they say, are too high for a teen

An old sixteen

And yet I still have them

Inheritable by school and the plague of beliefs

A nectar from which I wean

Imperfect, I call myself

Imperfect, that’s me.

Imperfect and flawed. Faulty sparking wires.

Even now my spoken words, edited in my head

Conversations over and over

Things left unsaid

And things to take back

For I’m not good at dance

I am not good with clothes

I cannot catch a ball

Yet here I am, still alive

Waiting for my great fall

Except that fall may be brutal

That fall may leave me torn

I’ll then rise up, and cover the scars

For they mean I am not purfehkt

I am no good with ladders

I am afraid of heights

I am no good at dance,

Yet I dance well into the night

Alone I can stumble

With others I pretend

I can catch a ball, but not in this game

I can match my clothes, the outfit picked out by my mother

I can dance, but never ballet

And I cannot stress more,

Ensuring emotional safety is my everyday

I am not a fast runner

So I speedwalk instead

You are not a perfect person

It’s the words I dread

imperfect

Called to be perfect

In a society where perfection key

Where I’ll never be good enough

Fleeting I’ll flee

I will never be good enough because I cannot run fast or catch a ball

I cannot match my shirt to my pants and I cannot dance or draw

My words in blood as I cry out to the world asking “why?” only to receive no response

I cannot run, so I will write instead.

I cannot float down a lazy river without stress.

I cannot be perceived as being at peace.

Because I am imperfect

And I know that I am

For the sun sometimes falls

And the moon is broken

The moon is beautiful despite its rough edges

The man in the moon, watches our lives

It cares not for the sun’s critique

For it needs help to shine.

A whisper in the wind, that’s what words become

A whisper in the wind, a society now undone

An opinionless world

That will never come to pass