Im(perfection)

Every imperfection like

The bitter taste of cigarettes

Dragging off your breath

Or the Irish liquor

Flowing through your veins

Is just another whisper

Telling me you’re perfect.

Every song by the Ramones

Played on your guitar

And every line of poetry

Rips into my heart.

The only real conclusion

That I can comprehend

Is that you’re perfect

Despite what everyone says.

All your talk of minarchy

And anarchy and hope

Could change the world

If you weren’t wearing chucks

With that leather jacket

And punk rock tattoos.

All they see is imperfection

Wasted trust and wasted time

Because you curse like a sailor

Whenever you can and

The little sanity you have

Remains constantly elusive.

So when the world calls you punk

They’re calling out that imperfection

What they really mean is criminal

Scoundrel and hooligan.

But when I call you punk

It’s the highest compliment

Because every imperfection

Forms a perfect mix

Every tainted thing you do

Gives me my punk rock kid.