A single pimple punctuates my chin.
Its solitude is what surprises me.
This blemish is an iceberg, just the tip
of angst and strains and stresses yet unseen.
I measure words so that I don’t reveal
my struggles, worries, annoyances, concerns
but acne is a mind map on my face
It tattles when I’m scared, upset, confused.
Concealer for this pimple — what’s the point?
It does not mar perfection, I know that.
But do I want disclosure on my skin
Of inner tumult otherwise unknown?
that cynking feeling 
I love the way you treat such an utterly plebeian matter with the elegance of iambic pentameter. 🙂 It almost makes a break-out seem not so bad.
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I felt I tangentially used the optional prompt. What could be more ordinary than a pimple?
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You make a pimple seem sort if lovely, if that’s even possible. Nice job!
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I liked the empowerment of “It does not mar perfection, I know that.”
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I feel this! Why does our body give us away so often?
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I love the whole first stanza. The pimple punctuates. The surprise of its solitude and tip of the iceberg.
So much that we try to keep hidden and that disloyal pimple threatens to break through the facade.
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