Verse, Be Better

Imperfection is a spurious thing,
Imperfection: Leaves mulching in the Spring.
Imperfection pulls my hair out by the roots
Imperfection guides dog-piles to my boots.

Imperfect is the pen that blotches
Imperfect, the poet that blandly watches
Imperfect, the imperfection of others, still
Imperfect makes them seem less ill.

Imperfectly, my heart will wander
Imperfectly, like this verse flies yonder
Imperfectly, my words, shaped like bricks
Imperfectly built without mortar, flicks

Imperfection on the end of its nose
Imperfect in its ability to lose
Imperfectly it's malleable, rather bored repose.