Perfect things are boring, and flawless. Airbrushed faces, straw legs, pink lips, big blue doe eyes. You see that everywhere. Nothing new.
Wild unkept hair, a girl who's not obsessed with her weight, two different colored eyes, a crooked tooth here and there. Surely imperfect, definetly not in a magazine. But that's the beautiful part of it all. It's real, something simply, and utterly gorgeous all on her own.
I guess it's just those rare moments that are crappy and nowhere near beautiful that I live for. Imperfectings are perfect.
"Dear mother can you hear me whining, it's been three whole weeks since that I have left your home, This sudden fear has left me trembling, 'Cause now it seems that I am out here on my own, And I'm feeling so alone, Pay attention to the cracked streets and the broken homes, Some call it slums some call it nice, I wanna take you through a wasteland I like to call my home, Welcome to paradise."