You are all different, and striving to be all the same.
You diligently count your flaws on your own two hands.
Critiquing a piece thats already been published,
Criticizing imperfections, that built yourself.

There is no space for a change, or reconstruction.
If there isn’t room for improvement, we shall make some,
And use our insecurity as a wrecking ball,
Demolishing the skyline in our perfectly flawed minds.

We do not need substance, or illness to fall apart.
It is in our fleeting thoughts, that create our disease,
And as it slowly spreads, we are oblivious to the effects,
Leaving cracks, showing fragility, ready to shatter.

In the end all you and I will ever be incomplete.
Walking, talking reminders of innocence lost.
A piece missing, and a perpetual search in vain,