I'm imperfect.

The crooked smile
On the face of a child,
That is oblivious
To the evils of the world.

The scratch on the record
That repeats the words,
"Every little thing is gonna be alright."
As you sit and consider leaving it all behind.

The "cute" sense of hesitation
In the actions of a young man
Losing two steps for every one,
Knocked off balance
By the push of rejection.

The gunshots of assault rifles
Ending soldiers' exhaustion,
The American flags lying on their caskets
Representing the illusion of freedom
That they fought for.

The forgotten people
Told by their friends and family
They would always be remembered,
An example that everyone leaves as they came
All alone with absolutely nothing to their name,
A reminder that it's all irrelevant.

The writer telling of the beauty
Found in something ugly,
Hoping flaws will come back in style,
Ignoring the fact that there are none
In fear of what he'll do
When no longer worried
By what others think.