The Sign

Perfect doesn't exist,
Or we've become so accustomed to compromise that when it sits right beside us,
We blink and say, "that's not true";
Maybe that's what we've become,
We try to shield ourselves so hard,
That we've forgotten what real feels like,
And anybody who comes by,
Has to stay, fret and cry to make us believe,
That for once they need nothing from us;

In the movie hall,
On the streets,
It might be time to stop,
To stroll a little,
And notice how time flies by,
How leisure we miss,
And how the dust swirls in the wind,
How human we are,
Vulnerable, imperfect, weak,
There is beauty in pain,
There is beauty in solace,
And there is perfect in imperfect,
For all who bear with our imperfect selves,
A big thank you....for being there,
A small request,
Just be honest.....