Flowers.

See that flower.
It’s stem is crooked.
It has extra leaves growing from it.
It’s roots are too long.
Too wiry.
It’s petals are bent.
None of them are the same.
Some are long.
Some are thin.
Some are wide.
Some are small.
The centre isn’t perfectly round.
The petals aren’t overly vibrant.
It stands on the outskirts of the field
And droops to the left a little.
But she still picks it from the ground and weaves it through her long hair,
Or perches it behind her ear.
He still gives it to his lover to show her he cares.
People still pass by and admire.
Because despite all of it’s imperfections, it is still seen as beautiful.
Each one is different.
Unique.
Every speckled petal and twisted leaf.
People are like flowers.
Different.
Obscure.
And far from perfect.
The flaws only add to who we are.
Why has the world not learned that yet?
Unrealistic portrayals,
Unattainable standards;
They force us to believe the contrary,
But we are flowers,
And we are beautiful.

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