'Perfect' : a seamleas amiss

This twisted logic that plays the tragic song is a balance too mundane to maintain. I seek calm in fragile form, answers to my deliberate war. The fine frenzy that beats to the rhythm is a pitch too loud for the crowd. I seek calm on sufficient isolation, answers to my questions galore.
Well I know when we say what is 'perfect person' ,you don't mean perfect. That person doesn't exist. What exists ,is somone who happens to be imperfectly perfect for you. The one who won't take your heart and break the little pieces down even more. The one who can take all the things about you that others might see as flaws ,and somehow make you feel good about  them. The one who can only laugh and pick you up in a hug from behind when you're upset and yelling, and you can't help but laugh and smile. They will probably have to listen more than they talk ,but that's perfect to them. Because that's you. And they love every bit of it. You won't question love, or hope ,or yourself because You'll know. They will know you  better then yourself, because that's all they can think about. Every detail about you, down to the most minuscule thing, they never forget. This is not something they would be just PRETENDING but just AFFECTION.
And it'll blow your mind, You'll wonder how someone can be so in tune with you, and it be so effortless. At times, it won't feel real ,almost like somehow it was put together as part of some beautifully crafted canvas by some unknown creator. And then you'll realise 'your perfect person'.
       But ,residing in a place where the population rapidly grows and the individual is becoming extinct... And to think ,to hope ,to wait ,to have faith  is not easy.
But ,the presence of that one , consumes all the realisation that only they can help us rebuild the deceript ruins of our hearts and structure the archaic labyrinth of our minds.
We have the one ,the one destined to reign over the impoverished lands of our souls.
          Here where we seek for honesty these days which buys us nothing ,maybe a cheap cup of coffee burnt with forgetfulness ,in a mug that looks white but has been stained with years of pours ,and years of being gripped by a nation afraid to finish it ,pay and enter a world where everyone and everything has abandoned truth for the easier softer way ,a way rife with one-liners sprayed with paint and carelessness. It makes me sick to my stomach, but I'm left with nothing to say, because nothing will change anyway. So, just let us drink this cheap cup of coffee and pretend there's nothing afterwards to do but mourn.