They determine our strength with no brains
We get our brains with the lack of strength
To find balance in this life is unobtainable
Unless you are the propaganda itself

With tests, they see how smart we are
With miles, they see how far we run
Run, run away from it all
But you won't get anywhere

They reward us with worthless prizes
They drown us in our unfamiliar seas
They overwork us with all we know
Is the haunting propaganda outside?

Propaganda. Manipulates us all
To believe it is utterly flawless
Flawless, you must be flawless
Flaws show ugliness and mistakes

Mistakes? There are no mistakes
When you are talking about propaganda

they're spotless, no room for human flaws here.
with faultless sense of selves and fragile attributes
are silver stars, whose homes are cold glittered spotlights
pressured, battered and bruised. look away dear, they're "fine"

they're fine, scared and composed until the next plot twist
rarely, ever so rarely - a perfect one slips
a miscalculation on a regular day
phenomena, wasn't supposed to be that way

perfectionism drove them faultlessly insane
when the known consistent road, shatters to eggshells
"ever so rarely", they reason to the mirrors
with guilt mixing in the blood of walking in fear

inner madness unleashing, black swans reappearing
the wrongs, how cruel that it doesn't let them go on
"this is only once in a blue moon", they echo
deep breathes, clutching close, the past's panic they can't let go

It has been four years
and I have not written a better poem
than the best poem I have ever written,
stuck in a repetitive loop
of not good enough,
never exceeding
what I was once able to do
my fingers ache for another masterpiece
but my brain refuses to provide
any sort of solace that would come with
writing a good poem,
a great poem,
something that would make me proud again

I'm not selfish!
You haven't experienced the weight and woe
that accompany me with each tick of the clock;

I was--no;
I always disapproved of the things I've done,
I've regretted trusting with such nativity,
I always offered too much

I wanted to be accepted,
so I did what I thought I should do.
I tried changing myself,
I attempted to be like them, and
to somehow be similar.

It was of pure envy,
I wanted to be like them
Attractive, and having
countless friends

I wanted and needed;
And, instead of being envious,
I was greedy or maybe both;

I kept on suppressing my own emotions,
I push back the tears before they even form.
I would look unpleasant if I allow them to fall.

With an effort to perfect myself,
I desperately tried to improve with
the talent that I possess.
I was frustrated
each time it looked--so horrible.

Yet, blinded by my own perfectionism,
I overlooked the progress made.

"What a fool,"

No ****** or dawdling just for fun
Gotta be the best gotta be #1
I scrutinize every detail
Until I am done
If I am not perfect I turn face and run

Its just a day in the life of a perfectionist
I could go on and on and make a long list, but I'm hopeful already that you all get the jist

I'd love to sit down and draw some cool art
But if every line wasn't perfect I'd crumple it up or tear it apart
However, I know that I'm talented and sharp as a dart
But my ideals are too critical and not very smart
However, this is my reality. So I hardly can start
Eh, Scratch all that - I guess I need to restart

Its all in a day of a perfectionist
I've reversed on my promise and made you a list
I'm second guessing myself that you're getting the jist

I'd love to sit down and write a poem or two
But it's impossible to write perfection though - we all know this to be true
That fact on its own is bringing me down and making me blue
Its making me sick like I'm getting the flu
How can I ever release this poem? What will I do?
Ugh! I've gotta scratch this again and come up with something that's new!

Don't you see? This is the life of a perfectionist
I've given examples and made a small list
But I'm confident now that you all get the jist

Of just what's its like being a perfectionist.

Hold up! There is one more thing I'd like to say
I beat myself up every night, every day
And although I fall short, I pray and I pray
That this wicked perfectionism will not stay
That one day I'll be content with myself and that it'll stay that way.
Now I'd like to wrap this all up - if I may

Well, I guess thats just the way it is
In a day of the life of a perfectionist
You've heard my reasoning and you've witnessed my list
So I can certainly say that you all get the jist

Of exactly what its like being a perfectionist