Perfect an imperfect word

and to be honest it’s difficult to live everyday happy, happy starts to feel like a chore, it drags on your tired eyes and charming speech. the grey of the skies and the white clouds leave you drained, as though you're dragging your smile across heavy chains and your legs give in, the sad songs flood in and suddenly you’re in your bed again, head under the covers, weeping your eyes out. and not everyday will be a good day, not everyday will be perfect. you’ll be burdened with days you won't want to speak to anyone when nothing is wrong, you’ll cry tears of nothingness and shut the world just so you can hear your thoughts. those days come and go, like every sadness that comes.

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