They say I’m “perfect”, then they say “not quite”;
It seems to me I mostly “almost” match.
I hear that battle’s not the one to fight;
Just be yourself, for perfect’s yet to hatch.
But being me is truly just so hard;
The ones who “get” me, still a numbered bunch.
I know I shouldn’t care and yield my guard,
But “love you (even though)” – a sucker punch.
I know it lies with me to find my cure;
Won’t please the masses – never perfect be.
So going forward, this I do assure:
The walk I walk, the talk I talk, is me.
Some still won’t like me, this I ascertain,
But caring not of pleasing eases pain.
The you that’s you is all we need;
of that you can be sure.
Would that all would understand
we’re all “not quite”, that’s perfectly right;
perfection’s not a cure.
Luv ya, man
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