The flaw

Everyday the sun sends the clouds out to work. They follow their lines and do their jobs. And I see the one cloud, who's not quite as fluffy, or not in line with the rest and I can't help but relate. Because in a picture perfect sky, I'm the cloud without a place. I'm the blot of ink that spilled on the painters masterpiece. I'm the word that the author didn't mean to put. I'm the song that no one mentions. I'm the flaw in the world, and flaws need to be deleted.