How Much of It Really Matters?
Every photo taken doesn't have to flatter,
And, on days, it's apparent at rest is my razor.
I'm convinced that some things don't matter,
And, by the way, I'll not wear a crested blazer.
I'm more apt to resemble a sack of feed,
But what you're seeing is what and who I am.
So do I apologize? no, there's no need,
I can't conform to being like Joe or Sam.
While you may think me not overly smart,
You cannot crawl inside my aging skin.
Opinions can't get inside my head or heart,
Or retrace steps to the places I've been.
I guess that what I'm really trying to say,
Withhold your judgment of me if you can.
If you'll allow me I'll sum it up this way,
God made me imperfect, an ordinary man.
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