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Perfect
It seems like my life has died.
But I'm only to find it was born again.
Only it's growing back vicious, cold-hearted, selfish and cruel.
Everything always seems to end up this way--
A way I never intended it,
A way it shouldn't have been planned.
A way it's all wrong.
Now nothing is right.
Nothing fits me,
Nothing cooperates
Or adjusts.
So if life's not perfect,
What is?
There has to be something in this world that's perfect or then perfect wouldn't exist.
Well, then what is perfect?
Life?
Friendships?
Relationships?
No, no, that's all wrong.
Then if it isn't life,
It must be something.
Something out there unnoticed.
Unrecognized.
Undiscovered.
Because clearly, life isn't it.
The way it's been going, and always will go is evidence
That it will continue to die
And then re-birth as--
Vicious, cold-hearted, selfish and cruel.
Sounds like my life!
