They said,

Nobody's Perfect,

And that You are worth it,

But I was wondering if I was born in these volatile breeze,

Laced with plethora masses of gritty truth,

That they are like an oppresive avoirdupois on my chest,

That I was born defected,

And what contained within this frail ribs,

And striking clockwork,

Was nothing but a string of fragile soul,

That sought for mercy and hopes,

From those cold,

Altramentrous pair of eyes.

?

?

?

I heard this mind spoke itself to me,

And the organs that orchestrated this prosaic rumination in myself,

Began to shriek and wail,

So loud and tangible that they richocheted,

Vapid and vividly in my ears,

That they'd bleed inky liquids of ominous truth,

So Here I am,

Kneeling on this cold hard ground,

Apologizing for every shards of imperfection,

Every strands of mistaken defection,

That formed my tears,

Everytime I weep in my sleep,

As I drowned in those placid yet suffocating silence,

?

And Here I am,

Sobbing indelible faults,

Onto these velvet sheets,

Of broken souls,

Uttering words that are non comprehendable,

In these darkest day,

For all these imperfection in me,

Are indelible misery inked in between my flesh,

And skins,

And they made me seems to be so easy,

To simply shout those profane words to those wingless angels,

On this Earth,

But Believe Me,

You didn't know,

You haven't seen things,

That were intangibly miserable,

I have done,

To this barren soul,