Some people say,
"I wish you were
taller"
Some people say,
"I wish your nose was a
bit bigger."
Some people say,
"I wish your lips were
smaller"
Some people say,
"I wish you were more
creative"
Some people say,
"I wish you were more
Intelligent"


But I say,
"Your Imperfection is also a
perfection for me"

An artist cries the most tears,
For art is a painful thing.
I wither my fingers to bones,
Perfecting every line of poetry.

I want it all to be perfect,
So much it starts reflecting onto my life,
The way I walk, the way I talk, the way I care too much.

Yet I am not perfect,
I'm afraid I never will be,
All this trying,
Is killing me.

From the first awakening to the sighted's sleepless death-

We're bent under times unbearable weight, between these events two,

I wont lose something beneath heaven's breath, worse,

Than the reluctant, peculiar, perfection of you.

Broken, Flawed, Imperfect.
People live among us.

Perfect,flawless, immaculate.
People live half alive.

As they try anything and everything.
To sell you a dream.
To gleam and shine.

To light up the screens.
Of teens who see.
No harm in the dream.

That being anything less.
Than them is wrong.

You have to shine.
Like they do.
Sell fake news.

Start a trend.
Make an impression.

Just don't be flawed.
In the way you speak.

Don't look broken.
Hide those eye bags underneath.

Your hair can't be imperfect.
Not a strand out of place.

Smile,gleam and shine.
The way you were always.
Influenced to.

Not a foot out of place.
Otherwise we won't allow you.
In this space.

Now fake a smile.
Won't you?

Writing doesn't pay,
My father wished for a son who could write anyways.
So I see that's what he got,
Though I think he wanted movie scripts and monologues,
Not random rhymes and songs.
Alas, even when you wish,
You never get quiet what you wished for.

I was never yours. You were never mine.  
We never held each other. You know me not.  
I acknowledge you whole, yet I know fractions of your entirety.  

I want to hold you close.  
I want your perfections against my skin, printing on me.  
Even better yet, I want your imperfections on me.  
Stain me with what you call imperfections,  
colour me black with them.  

Tear me apart—with effort.  
Make me yours, for life.  

Let me carry your imperfections,  
of which they hold no weight.  
Let me carry the weight of your perfections.  

Let me pave the road of us.  
Maybe your print will be missing from the first miles of it,  
but your print is everlasting on me.  
And on the road—who can carry the burden of us together?  

A road fractured the instant we met.  
Parallel worlds.  
I fall into a world where vividness falls short of the eye,  
another where light meets colour,  
and my eyes meet you.  

I was never yours—  
or so you say.

if imperfections make art,
the skin and your face is anything but art,
but i can't find any better artwork,
then yourself.
but then you're not created by humans,
but by God,
whose creations are perfect as they are.

No matter
how much!
you refine or extend
perfection retreats
a mirage with no end~

~Perfection's got no end~