I am but a freckled flaw in the eyes of perfection.
Sun painted and blushed,
Sprinkled in the light of the sky with a fair collection of dots,
The soft crinkle of my nose,
The uneven depth of my dimples,
The misshapen enormity of my heritage showcased artfully by my lips.

I am flawed,
Beautifully.
I am flawed,
Creatively.
For my every inch was labored over,
Praised by the almighty,
Kissed and loved to an infinite state of idolatry.
The man or woman,
Whoever may be up there,
Perched upon clouds and surrounded by endless sky,
Watching me in pure awe at the wonderment of His glorious creation.

I celebrate myself,
In that I am a part God,
Born in the light of His imagination,
Born because He chose me.
Born every inch intriguing,
And every thought worth hearing.
Every warmth in my eye admired,
Every fault drawing the rotation of heads alike,
Every mutter, every foul stench,
Every tear, every granted breath,
Every song softly sang, every empty echo evoked,
Need not go unseen.

I sing in my muse,
For out of many,
I was allowed life.

I have been put together by jagged puzzle pieces.
The ones that do not quite fit.
I am that of a creatively original masterpiece,
I am the product of all the scraps.
I am the remains,
I am the leftovers,
I am my own.

I celebrate myself and I sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom that belongs to me,
As good belongs to you.