You are not a checklist with carefully caculated venal choices,

'looks over soul,

polished over principals,

money over substance.'

Or the formula for impeccability.

You are not a recorded manifestation of adjectives that

fabricate a immaculate human being,

'perfect, handsome, money-spinner.'

You are unrefined, and imperfect. 

You are the scraps and broken pieces

that create artwork.

You are stormy weather that

forms a picture-perfect rainbow.

You are a ill-favored pullover

that relentlessly excites your heart.

You are flawed in every which way,

but I love you so much more for it.