Picture Perfect

If you were a vase with flowers, you would be that pretty vase. But not as pretty as the contained flowers. I were to say the name it would be a rose. If you were a musical instrument, you would definitely be a guitar. Your codes would sound extravagant. Branded you are the self-gratifying guitar. Nothing whose beauty is unnatural would paint you picture perfect. If you were an insect you be a weevil, you would spray us with your floret. Now, it is said that roses are red, Honey is sweet, That is all truth, what of your picture perfectness? That’s all you could have been. What you really are is what matters. An alive color of grass being green, a stream with ever flowing waters. Where the green grass finds its color we know not. Where waters get the valor crossed our minds not. What we see now is withering grass. The exhaustion of flowing waters. And some of the paint falling gross, you haven’t pretended well picture perfect.