Pieces molded all shapes and sizes
Seem to fit together in life's puzzle,
Perfectly.
Perfectly.

My pieces used to be stuck like glue,
Somehave fallen and gotten lost.
Now you see the real me.
Missing pieces.
Imperfection.
The pressure weighing more, causing more pieces to fall,
Pushing harder, harder, harder;
My shoulders growing weak.
Imperfection.
Keep pushing, you're not good enough, do better.
The voice still yelling;
I can hear it wherever I go,
Whatever I do.
Another piece falls.
Imperfetion.
Covering up the holes with a smile where the pieces used to be.
Can people see through it?
Is perfect really perfect?
Is imperfect truly imperfect?
Can a warm smile and warm voice hide everything forever?