My imperfection is me.

I’m too caring.

I’m too nice.

I watch, I observe things.

I don’t trust,

I do trust.

Who am I to others?

Who am I to me?

I overthink,

I shrink….

From perceived coldness.

My high sensitivity

Is a blessing,

Is a curse.

My pen falls down.

Who am I?

Am I someone

Too imperfect?

What does it matter

To me?

Imperfection is life.

Imperfection is me.

–by Maria Mocha © 2021


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