I am not perfect.
I am nowhere near perfect.
I simply play the part,
But only for you.

I try to be the best.
I aim for perfection.
But like Cupid,
My marksmanship is poor.

I will always fail,
I will always be,
This same imperfect entity,
All that is yours.

If imperfection,
Is perfect to you,
Than I shall put down my bow,
And aim no more.

I am not a masterpiece,
I am a forgery,
Created by the perfect artist.
You.

I apologize for my texture,
The flaws that give me away.
For to an expert,
I am nothing but a replica.

To an unlearned eye,
I may be something,
Born of the renaissance,
Yet I am nothing special.

I was born of this age.
An age where an artist's ideals,
Are formed from past works.
And I am nothing but a forgery.

Not a forgery of Da Vinci or Michelangelo,
But a forgery of these new age artists.
Only a forgery of an idea's idea.
Nothing more.