It took me too long to get here and I’m tired. I’m tired of the generations set before me that showed me to love you and seek you first. The generations that didn’t show me to value myself and that your trust and value for me trumps my own for myself. I’m tired of being empathetic for you. Placing myself in your shoes then turning around to help you bear your cross. That shit is heavy. That shit weighs me down and down is a place I’ve chosen not to dwell anymore. In down, I’m confused about your love and I’m conflicted about if you love me as much. In down I allow you to push. Push me further from you and even further from myself. All that resisting of push gets me tired. So forgive me for sleeping on you now. I’m catching up on rest. Rest from those nights you left me wondering, troubled, and in distressed. Rest from the nights we laid up but I laid there alone. Rest from exhausting myself pushing you across your finish lines while pulling myself to fulfill my own dreams. I’m sorry I’m sleeping on perfection.
She bears fruit in her belly, and she carries the sweeter in her mind. From her roots to the tiptoe she strides forward to greatness. The lips she parts speak into the lives of many generations. She teaches what transpired, transpires, and what will. She is the future. She is woman. She is god. She is the manifest of the world’s destiny. She is imperfectly bearing all things perfect.
See.. the problem with perfect is eyesight. Vision is the carrier of grief and disappointment. One who sees themselves in a perfect light lacks the vision of all things whole. To be whole is to be present with caution and reconstruction signs. Nitpicked from head to toe, towing the burden of generations of what was seen through eyes passed.Expectation of vision. Expectation of mission.
The problem with perfect is the meaning of purpose and forever. To fulfill your purpose is to fight the good fight; to struggle and find the light. To pick up rock, to stick, to brick,…to bear your cross. To walk through short cuts, dead ends and dimly lit paths.
The problem with perfect is missing life’s shit. Deep in the tunnels of agony and despair, throughout the rough patches, there are fields of fulfillment. There is secondary and tertiary. There are levels to shit. From bull, from person.
The problem with perfect is the fight for peace of mind. Heavy pressure. More dirt. Build her up. Make a woman. Tear her down. Build her up. Tear her down. Build her up. Tear her down. Stop. She rebuilds herself. The problem with perfection is that it is at the hand of another.
The problem with perfection is that it is at the hand of another. Make her prettier. Make her lighter. Make her darker. Make her “whiter”. Make her “blacker”. Change her ways. Take from her rights to be herself. Make her into your expectation for the moment.
I am hypocrisy. I am hypersexuality. I am insecurity. I am lies. I am defeat. I am attitude. I am fake. I am troubled. I am depressed. I am distraught. I am destruction. I am greatness. I am intellegent. I am bright-eyed. I am well-versed. I am disappointment. I am amazing. I am wonderful. I am heroine. I am good. I am bad. I am what I am. I am heathen. I am with-flaw. I am a work in progress.
Life has a funny way of transforming your views of who you should be. Why should the decisions you make in life shape your vision of yourself? The moment you recognize your characteristics is the moment you take control of your process of continuous improvement. What is right to possess? What should be discarded? The process is the sweetest…thank God it ain’t perfect.
Just Keep Sipping,