Throes of a chronic loser

Nothing is perfect.
The moon has shadows,
Sun shines too hard
Flowers looking divine, smells rot.

There is a head and tail,
Hidden inside every flipped coin.
Failures hidden behind every success.
Where success exists but just for a second.

I got a glimpse of the gorgeous dress,
Beautifully stitched, the way I wished.
I extended my hands to feel the texture,
And its just a dream that can't be captured.

I chose to walk the path of Chronic losers,
The land of self inflicted pains,
Where, I listened to more throes and woes.
Tired, gazed back, and started to retrace my steps.