Nothing is perfect, so I am not.
Although I love my profusions a lot,
for they make me what I am,
still they assemble to make a sham.
However, more is my love for my vacuums.
Among all of my flower urns,
thorny ones draw my concerns,
and not my greener ferns.
The portions I am yet to paint
or the areas painted faint.
I love them more, the colors complain
I know but cannot soothe their pain,
as mine are prettier than theirs, a lot,
as they whisper to me what I am not.
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