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The Perfectionist

Will I ever taste the fruits of happiness?
Do I even know what that entails?
Like wolves to roadside entrails,
The devouring of ideals seems like a good idea,
Until the regurgitation begins.
Will I ever truly know happiness?
I preach that those keys are in our hand,
Yet in my hand those jangling metal shapes,
Only open doors to loft expectations,
And excessive manifestations.
Even when I taste something,
There’s a period of gestation,
Followed by a period of digestion,
The nutrients pulled in by my body are pathetic,
They aren’t even able to maintain this aesthetic,
Masterpiece I’ve created.
I beg and crave for perfection,
I cry out for the upper tendrils to touch my hand,
Yet as life batters and bruises its way down natural selection,
The petals low reaching are weak and bland,
The once sweets ambrosias are malodorous,
I ask for this situation to pass over us,
Or at least me.

I am a student of life.
I am a keeper of its lessons.
In my youth I will strive,
Until my ignorance becomes my blessings.
I am separated by a cloth so thick,
I am lonely in my cognition.



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