He trembles
as he gazes upon
the upturned nostrils of They
that whispers
“Not good enough. Doesn’t fit the mold.”
They is the pestering voice that
jackhammers your skull and
shoves your limbs into broken figures.
“be left”
one screams
“RIGHT”
roars the other.
Left is contested into silence.
So there he sits with
trembling hands,
raging insides,
and bared teeth.
“Perfection”
crows the They we all fear
but shall soon become