There’s a common misconception,

A foolish recollection,

An indignant assertion,

That all souls who are born,

Are born perfect, white spheres.


But some souls are born lopsided,

Misshapen and bent,

Some are stained

Black, Blue, and Red.

This I assert is the truth.


The liars will say their chant,

That it’s all your fault,

That you played in filth,

That you fell and crashed,

That you need to live in consequence.


Sometimes you believe them,

Those damned jackals.

They’ll never understand,

What it’s like to have your soul.

The pain and ridicule that comes with it.


I know that it’s not your fault.

I know that your soul is imperfect

And that’s okay

Because I know better.

I know that it’s not your fault.


Come here, come close!

Take a look at my soul,

See how crumpled and sharp it is

See how the red, taints its pearly white.

Come close, come listen!


Although it is true,

That ours will never be perfect.

They’re not so rigid,

Like clay, they can be caressed

Into beautiful shapes.


All you need is a pair

Of empathetic hands

To help you massage out the folds,

Undo the wrinkles,

Rub out the stains.


We are stronger when we open the door.

For I guarantee that those

Who mock and blame

They too have misshapen souls

Of which they hide shamefully.


Little do they know

Of the salve, the poultice

That is that one simple word,


Sometimes it’s all you need.


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