Like this autumn leaf,imperfect people tend to fall from great heights and change according to what they believe as 'perfect'.
This poem's dedicated to those imperfect people like me!
Perfect biatches can just go be perfect someplace else but here.
Perfection
doesn't come from false gibberish.
In fact,it is a clandestine contradiction,
a beautiful lie,a greater sin,an inconspicuous deal;
probably woven by the Devil himself.
XOXO,the P.O.E.T