I just want Perfection.
What? Too much to ask?
Just some gears in my mind
That spin without grease,
Whizzing, and smoking, and, please,
Making me Perfect, in all that I do.
In my mind, on the page, from my mouth, my embarrasing mouth.
Why, oh, why not? Is it too much to ask?
My brain wouldn't fry at the thought of rejection,
If there were no rejection to speak of, to feel,
To whisper on my own, tender, hurting, when the world yells "You're great!"
God, please burn the clots of failure, self-spite,
Jealousy, doubt, it pounds far too loud.
I just want the quiet
Of utter Perfection.
I'll think they love me.
And then I won't cry.