He is like that book with missing pages,
Like an incomplete painting with torn edges,
To people these lapses really don't matter.
They try to judge by skimming through that book,
By sparing a glance, on that painting by the hook,
Looking with there elaborate gauges,
and their preconceived notions...
And then they form their opinions about him
They call him stubborn, they call him cold skin
Initially he felt bad, he tried to reason and explain
Not anymore let them snare, now
He simply doesn't care...
