Perfect

Yes, I’m disturbed

This much is true

But the question is

How much more

Am I than you

The problem we have

Is opinion you see

You call me sick

Though I think it’s you

Not me

True, my thoughts do race

My ideas, fleeting at best

And my conscience won’t sleep

Through a tortured

Nights rest

My heart does bleed

For the innocent and meek

And my soul prays for death

Everyday of the week

But I’d rather live

The way that I do

Than be cold-hearted,

Unfeeling,

And perfect like you