Win, win, win, all the time, Never mediocre, that won’t do.

Be the best, if you’re not, then try harder.

Perfection is a choke hold,

Fatigue, a strangled aorta, gushing its strength.

The train is coming, run, go now.

Chug, chug, chug.

Logic gone, defeat unacceptable, shame and guilt mixed for dinner.

Not enough, never enough, tolerance is not for those who lose.

Caliber is top, no matter the medium.

Sanity sacrificed, sleep a dream, food a luxury, still one cog short.

Cannot go on? Too damn bad.


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741