(Picture) Perfect-ly Imperfect


Picture Perfect-ly Imperfect





I wish I were that pretty.

I wish I were that witty.

I wish… “Oh hey yeah I’m great!

How are you?”


We put on a show.

If someone were to ask

“How was your day?”

We’d say it was okay

and lie to their face

because we can’t really convey

how we feel.

Or how we really look.

Or who we really are.


But why not?


I’m a dreamer.

I love to pretend

that I already know

how my story will end.

I’m a thinker.

I think school is cool

and word games are fun

and I’d rather do a puzzle

than go for a run.

I take risks,

if only for the thrill,

but I would be just as happy

to lay low and chill.


Those things are visible even with a filter.

What isn’t?


I’m scared.

Scared of what the future might bring.

I’m scared God will give me a test

and I won’t know a thing.


I’m sensitive.

I’d like to think I have thick skin

but it’s actually pretty thin

and that’s how it’s always been.


I care what they think.

“They” being the never-ending line of people that I meet.





I’m insecure.

I’m my biggest critic

and about everything I do

I am analytic.


Baring my soul,

my deepest insecurities.

Mind-numbingly difficult.

But also thrilling.

Writing this poem?

A risk.


But who doesn’t love a good thrill? 

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