The music sings of flaws,

the pages read of lies,

the people around create their own,

to catch you by surprise.

 

Though your heart is covered,

their thoughts penetrate,

bleeding profusely and dripping

in cold hate.

 

My thoughts may be wrong.

to them.

My words may be unsung,

to them.

My ideas dry,

and my paper thin.

Blank, with nothing t'offer within.

 

Though only to them.

Only to them I am uninspired. Broken.

 

But to me,

these broken pieces

make a beautiful whole.

 

These eyes see more

than what's made to be seen.

 

This skin feels more than

 the pain that bleeds.

 

This heart gives more

than it ever shall receive.

 

These dark imperfections

are the things of my beauty;

A beauty of soul.

 

These flaws are what make me flawless.

To me.

Even if only to me.