The True Perfection

[Another contribution from JW: both art and poetry.]

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The true perfection of humanity,
in a sense,
lies within our imperfections.
And vice-versa:
Beauty can be an imperfection.
Doubtless, not the common-thread
we would’ve selected
for ourselves.
Yet a bond, never-the-less,
binding us together.
Humans are equally yoked
in imperfection.
Alas, perfection is merely a state
of mind: often misconceived.
Humanity is a state of being:
a state where we each reside.
Neighbors.
Who then, when equally yoked,
has the right to condemn?
Yes, beauty has its appeal,
but it’s still a façade.
After all, today’s beauty
is tomorrow’s has been;
like today’s wannabe
is tomorrow’s never was.
Attempting to uplift oneself
by degrading another,
especially when unable to prove
one’s own perfection, is, sadly,
more than a waste of breath.
It’s a prevailing symptom
of an epidemic.
An ever-increasing pastime…
An ill-inspired comedy of errors…
With but one fate…
a Greek tragedy.

Fashionable or not

[Another contribution by JW: poetry and art.]

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Fashionable or not,
faith in beauty remains as fickle
as the ever-changing fads it inspires.
After all, fashion is merely another persons
opinion of how you should look or act.
Find what makes you happy
and ditch the rest.
Outside or inside,
if your reflection isn’t perfection
you’ve got no right to judge.
And what good is a high IQ
to anyone dumb enough to judge others
by the way they look?
Condemnation of another person’s
imperfections has always been
a sign of simpletons,
no matter how richly they’re adorned.
To those unable to see the beauty here,
come back when you mature.
To iterate; it’s overlooking imperfections
which draws us closer to perfection.
Especially since no one honestly relates
to Madison Avenue:
scars are the “Real Thing”.
Our differences make us special: unique.
Not our similarities, but our differences
which perfectly distinguish us.
Hate me for my differences
and you hate yourself.
Condemn me for my imperfections
and you condemn yourself.
Only by accepting me
can you truly accept yourself

 

The Perfect Ideal

[Another contribution from JW: both art and poem.]

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The perfect ideal.
A pristine face.
An impeccable body.
Say it isn’t so.
Outstanding?
Awesome?
Hardly.
How remarkably inhuman.
Nothing of substance to glory in.
So unlike the human condition.
Simply unbelievable.
Doubtless, the romantic strives to
articulate the perfect ideal.
And let us not forget the artistic
renderings:
vast and varied are these
attempts to portray it.
Yet could it ever be?
Not likely.
Point of fact:
Flawless beauty is an oxymoron.
Then, pray tell, who are the “beautiful
people” we hear so much about?
The creators and perpetrators of the
illusion?
Or equally disillusioned?
What manner of person willfully
elevates themselves above others
merely by appearance?
Who is the actual court jester?
The person looked down upon,
or the one doing the looking?
After all, flaws in character are
equally, if not more, detrimental
than flaws in appearance.

Body Image

“I don’t know what you see in me.” — I’ve said this to Alpha many times —

Like most women, I struggle with body image issues. We all compare ourselves to the women we see in magazines (well-knowing they have been photoshopped and airbrushed), on television, in movies, and yes, even porn, and feel that we’re not good enough–breasts too small, butt not perky, tummy too round, icky love handles, and now, no six-pack abs. We know it’s unrealistic to think we can look like those women whose lives revolve around dieting, exercise, trainers, and plastic surgery (because their livelihood is tied to their bodies), and not around family, work, and limited finances. And if you’re a woman of “a certain age”, as I am, on top of everything else, you’re contending with gray hairs, wrinkles, and a traitorous body that is slowly creeping south.

Alpha tells me I’m beautiful in his eyes, that He could never see me as anything but beautiful, and that I’m perfectly imperfect for Him. He constantly reassures me of His love for me, and His desire for me. And I hear the sincerity in His voice, see it in His eyes. Still, I struggle.

Logically, I know what He means because I love Him, and in doing so, love His body. He has many scars from repeated surgeries that attempted, with limited results, to fix an injury He suffered in the military. And like me, He’s no longer a spring chicken…er…rooster. But I love every imperfection, every scar, every extra pound. I crave His body, love worshiping every inch of it with my fingers, lips, and tongue. I want that beautiful body sleeping beside me for the rest of my life.

He is my perfect sexy Alpha. Why is it so hard to see myself as His perfect sexy kat?