If you saw all the blank pages
I tried to write,

The empty drafts
Without words,

You'd realize I'm not perfect?

So why must you insist that I am?

Why am I held to such a high expectation,
Where anything less than perfection is wrong?

Where I'm wrong?

And, more importantly,
Could I ever be enough for you?

Could I ever be something more,
Anything more, than a "failure" ?