Under The Weight Of Perfection
I let him latch onto my fantasy
I let him become a dream, I could no londer touch
He became a delusion of my conscience
He was everything I painfly molded him into
Yet after awhile the edges seemed rough where I touched them
The shiny paint of his exterior was peeling, where you could see patches of his now grey center
And under the pressure of my hand, he caved and shattered at my feet
His thick skin cut my palm, and my blood ran red on the shards
In the end I cried out in pain
Not for the fact he was in pieces
But because it hurt
This poem is about:
Me