The tongue is lethal,
A sweet coating for a rotten core.
Every shift of the tide
is another lie.

The tongue is lethal,
a small dose of poison for the chronically ill.
Every promise is broken
and my heart becomes frozen.

The tongue is lethal,
a silent drowning in shallow water.
Every attempt to demoralize
the psyche brings tears to my eyes.

The tongue is lethal,
an eye wide open as my mind drifts to sleep.
This tongue of mine
is a weapon for surefire demise.

I am not made of lethargy or inability.
Just a severe case of perfectionist.
I wanted it to be great.
So,
I just did nothing at all.

how can you be a perfectionist
when you always fail

how can you know the truth
but refuse to listen

how can you feel so moved
yet not move

how can you feel so bold
yet not say a word

how can you be so full of love
yet never love

how can you exist
without ever living

how can you be you
when you’re never you

How insulting to You, precious Lord, I have been.
My efforts are spent seeking to please merely men.
Although, they're as imperfect and lowly as I,
Yet, I’ve held their unworthy opinions too high.
When my attention should be set firmly on You,
Who appreciates all that I am and I do.
It wavers when I look into judgmental eyes
And fear of mistakes creates Your presence’ disguise.
Consuming frustration! I will never be free,
If I try to determine what they think and see.
Genuine satisfaction can only be found
After losing myself in a worship unbound.
My heart’s open to You but to man it is sealed.
Only there, my perfection through Christ is revealed.

Unsatisfied
Left empty, void, hollow.
It's unsettling.
It's nerve wracking, unable to follow.

No matter what you try to make it fit
Nothing is perfect, nothing is right
Nothing is working and it's all simply ****
It's ****, it's ****, it's ****.

I struggle and I fight.
I scream and cry and groan and whine.
People tell it's not a problem;
That it's really absolutely fine.

Both you and I know that it;s not
and it never will be
because it's not going to be perfect
And I don't think it ever will be.

she was a Mess
a mess that looked so Brilliant
but Also so Genuine
that when people looked at her all they saw
was a Mastermind behind that Bad *** body.
   she was a Wild One.

It takes time to find the right words
Conceiving them so they may blossom
A construct of words, a piece of art
The perfectionist hidden inside a poets heart

Though impatient he is
Eager to find the most beautiful words
He's rushing it, he's writing too fast
A bad poem he wrote, he's seeing aghast

The impatient poet retries again
A simple relapse it won't happen once more
As he's rushing, he didn't learn from the past
Poetry needs time, he noticed at last