The silhouette

Something of whose lacks curves, straight, rigid quite boney to a point. Bearing the unbelievable, nearly six feet. Lean, athletic to the edge, but so small, so fragile, the branch that breaks in the wind. Acute angles make the inside, obtuse angles, their on the outside. Something that stands slight of ninety degrees, a hunch. Not so dark to be considered black, in the light too red to be called brown. So small, in a dark pool of their own. Pebbles sprawled across a deserted sand bank. Wide, but so narrow, strong but so soft. The torso evenly in proportion to the legs. Tanned to a set, pale to the rest. Loud, but so quiet, anger filled rage. A soft interior is compared to a rough exterior. Two sides of all of us. A voice that rings though pierced ears, a shout, a cough, a struggle to be heard. Long, but lean, nice yet mean, so unattractive to many, but some, those left field thinkers as I. Imperfection and flaws in characters and looks, are truly beautiful.