I’m not a picture of perfection,

But I am the Mona Lisa of imperfection,

This distorted picture which you view,

This picture which you judge,

Which you question,

Is my only reality,

A picture hanging in a museum wall,

Being watched, examined, analysed, criticized,

I am that picture,

The one you so often seldom walk pass,

The one which may catch your eye,

The picture that when you stop to stare at,

Haunts you,

The glazed complexion over the eyes,

The somewhat distant smile,

And the disheavled hair,

It’s not a picture of perfection,

But it’s the Mona Lisa of imperfection,

It’s a representation of all those beings walking this earth trying to hide their flaws,

They are not Mona Lisa’s,

They hang on the wall of museums,

Pretending that no one sees through them,

Little do they know, they are barely paintings but pieces of glass,

So transparent and fragile,

That any moment now, when that passing strange stops,

Stares,

And opens there mouth,

That glass, will shatter into tiny little brush strokes,

They will float away into the air,

Leaving nothing but a distorted image of perfection,

Whilst I’ll hang in my glory of imperfection