The few, the lovelies.

A poem about the best of humanity.


1. Perfection

Some people shine, brighten up a gloomy day or a dull conversation and then there are people who can illuminate the night sky with nothing but there very existence. There are some people with shocking iridescence whose very state of being is beautiful beyond recognition. People like this are rare. They float around the earth and they force people to open their eyes. This is not their goal but simply a bi product of their grace. Their fingertips send shockwaves, their smiles radiate warmth - create enough heat to melt the iced hearts of the bitter. These people are often vastly unappreciated or worse yet, unnoticed, even by themselves. They are angelic in their fragility. Pure, not in action, but in soul. Warmth, passion, empathy and love fill them full to busting at any given moment. So confoundedly unaware of the gift they hold within, for most people lack capacity. Lack the innate desire of what fuels the few. It is not an easy life to be so pure in heart, it is lonely and wrought with disappointments. Their expectations are rarely met and they do not fully understand selfishness. Do not understand people who do not give all of themselves. Do not understand people who give love and take it away. They are few and they are lonely. They are still human of course, with quirks and idiosyncrasies of their own. They love too often, expect too much and they feel everything. They are artists. They hunger for human connection, for closeness, for sincerity. Pushing and shoving love at anyone who looks twice. Wearing their heart not on their sleeve but in their eyes and on their face, in their every move. They are smaller than a passing thought and larger than a world united. There are addicts, junkies, hypnotized by the way two people can be something more together. Fascinated by the human condition. In lust with the idea of infinity and in love with vulnerability. They are aware and naive. So young and old beyond their time. They love, they live and they feel. Sometimes however they long for a moment of apathy, of complete disenchantment. Ache for a single second where their fires burn low and their nerves are not rubbed raw. Long for a lack of longing, simple existence, but it never lasts long. They see beauty. Not in themselves but in everyone else. They see the humanity in each and every soul no matter how carefully it is hidden. They love unconditionally, unequivocally. Every flaw and imperfection and bad mood. They love it all, they can’t help it. They give and give to people who want nothing more than to take. It wears them down and it eats them up. They see so much pain, so much suffering and they lack a shield so it becomes their own. It surrounds them. People are drawn to them.
The few, the lovelies.
If only the could see the absolute beauty in themselves.

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