A fleet and fickle thing
With a choke hold on my ambition
Darling,
I'd sell my soul to see
Sand trapped in the sieve,
or the light trapped in your eyes
Intoxicated by rigidness
Drunken on standards of perfection
Pour down my throat
The blades that scab, scar
Tear my skin
Until i'm the epitome of your gaping void
Paragon to hopeless idealism
While juxtaposed to idealized fault
Still found to be lacking
So I quit pushing
So I can be swept under
In a different direction
Free...
From your good intentions