Lord of the half full

Grant me imperfection

May I always be out of focus

May I slur my run on sentences

And talk in typos

Take me to the land of expired milk

And overly runny honey

May it always be partly cloudy with sun showers

Where the people will smile with crooked teeth

And lazy eyes curve around blemishes

May I always need glasses

And in times of desperation remove them

And form the blurs into our own paradise