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.* 

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