Perfect isn’t, couldn’t ever be
if it wanted, couldn’t imagine
itself close near kinda sorta
almost halfway there…it just

Perfect lies down on minds and
ideas and lets itself live without
shame without doubt without
the thing it can’t and will never
ever be

Perfect destroys those it touches
infects with dreams, taints and
distorts the already small lens we
look at reality…that we try to
see though

Perfect; created by man in order
to allow us to dream to have a
direction forward…an illusion, a
delusion, a stake through
our hearts

Perfect dreams of something
better something correct and
all the things it should be, that
when time passes completely;
it is

Perfect isn’t

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