Perfect I am not, nor will I ever be.
I don't know why people like me, I'm just being me.
I never get things done, I never get it right.
My life a constant battle, in which I loose the fight.
I see people living happy, showing a lot of pride.
Wanting to be like that, I begin to cry and hide.
Everyone seems so happy, wonderful and free.
For I will never be perfect like that, because I am only me.
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