Slave
I'm a slave of Imperfection, whose long for freedom cannot be fathomed by the yardstick of Norm. Because a yard is a yard. And a fathom is a fathom. Not too different,yet can never be the same. Yet they measured it quick, and the judgement is fixed. I'm still a slave of Imperfection, whose labor is free, unlike my hands and my feet. Well, well. My hands are shackled, and they bruised my knuckles. I refuse to sigh, but instead I chuckled. *excerpt from my tweets. malas? probably. No inspiration? definitely.*