"perfectionist" poems
I am warmhearted and icy cold,
with a pretty face that's getting old.
I am fragile yet tough as a man,
struggle thru life with no real plan.
I am petite and cuss like a trucker,
slightly naive, but I'm no sucker.
I am a sinner with a halo of gold,
an open book with secrets untold.
I am a hypocrite but always play fair,
a bleeding heart and I don't care.
I am a mother who acts like a child,
crazy, impatient and easily riled.
I am spontaneous and I am a bore,
forever forgiving, I still keep score.
I am unstable and wonderfully wise,
a ****** deviant in sweet disguise.
I am creative and self-destructive
naturally skilled and unproductive.
I am shy and I am outspoken
with a heart of stone, easily broken.
I am awkward and well refined,
lost, insightful and a little love-blind.
I am respected and I am addicted
shamed by burdens, self inflicted.
I am a perfectionist and I am a slob,
unbiased and shallow, an inept snob.
I am nocturnal, a creature of night,
blissfully ignorant, typically right.
I am cautious and I have no fear,
a loser and quitter, still I persevere.
I am brilliant and easily amused,
over-zealous and under-enthused.
I am impervious with wounds to heal,
an occasional liar just keepin' it real.
I am weird and lovely and mean-
I am what I am.......100 Aileen.
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 3:50 PM UTC
Misconceptions
Fasley smiles
Psychoanalyzed
Could it be my OCDish
Would they agree or disagree
Respectfully - with no referee
Whatever matter - It doesn’t
Let it be
I’m carefree
It’s the best defense
Not a draftee
A perfectionist I am
It stems from many forces
My moral sense
At any expense
Not remorses
Their sweet jabs
From the start
Yes
From day one
Like Mr. Shukar - they see
I'm the new prospect
My disposition in scrutiny
As I take in with fluency
No unity
Let it be
I’ll take it in my dome
Its my best cover
Not styrofoam
I'll take it whichever way it's thrown
Please...
Pass the twisted news along
I continue staying strong
Detail-oriented is my syndrome
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 2:55 PM UTC
Souls search for corresponding measures with gossamer vines through ether
Trapped in corporeal form often drifting between the learner and the teacher
Passing the souls mate yet missing the eyes of fate’s tomorrow
Spending years or a lifetime without a match in loss and sorrow
Souls never lost or seen in a colored perfectionist spectacle
Yet still touch the heart and mind even though vestigial
We cannot find the split soul’s half with judgmental eyes
And if all we see is material, we may never hear a soul’s cries
For the one that makes us whole often wears a disguise
We are lucky enough to peer into the same blue skies
So when you find your souls match, you will know in an instant
You will feel like the sun, or at the very least like you just kissed it!
Walking you into a warmth that is rarely ever seen
You feel as though you lay on clouds, or lost in a pleasant dream
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 3:01 PM UTC
stripped naked in the figurative sense, I see a girl that is far overdue for a dose of joy. so much emptiness in her eyes, blood flow has become invisible. beauty. oh so much beauty in the way she cares absolutely too much for those that are unaware of her favorite color nevertheless asks how she feels every blue moon. perfectionist could quite possibly be her middle name by the way her heart beats in sync with the spontaneous moods that show their appearance every two days or so. anxiety equals a rapid beat. "if you feel worried then you must act on it" seems to be her philosophy because when she's sad and shaky the heart must go slow.
for,
she.
is.
slow.
when the depression hits and vulnerability only shows its face behind closed doors im sure she would say that she feels as though she's suffocating. suffocating in the figurative sense, where everyone is there watching her but no one can differentiate heavy breathing in basketball practice from a ******** asthma attack.
idiots.
so numb. she's so numb in the figurative sense. you ask her how she is and each time it's an automated "good" as if practiced hundreds of times before a theatre performance. an actress. she's an actress in the literal sense. planting a smile from ear to ear even when it's an obvious gloomy day for everyone else. she puts on a show of happiness that could very much earn her an oscar, if only she were literally in the entertainment business. I can see her falling in the way her back hunches just 10 degrees lower than it had a year ago. I would recommend a doctors appointment but im hoping she learns to fix it on her own. I'm hoping it begins to appear in someone around her that maybe she isn't as okay as she seems. this beautiful perfectionist doesn't just have bad days and doesn't just spare her low moods in spite of upsetting those around her. this beautiful perfectionist doesn't see herself as beautiful. this beautiful perfectionist is so far from perfect.
maybe if someone looked a little deeper in the literal and figurative sense, they would choose to ask, after her automated response of "good", "are you really?"
-mxy
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 9:33 PM UTC
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
Oct 29, 2020
Oct 29, 2020 at 6:26 PM UTC
If I could write my life as a poem
For millions who'll read, understand, think
I'd conjure an epic, a mystery
A tale on edge, a tragedy's brink.
I'd weave gripping waves of pleasure
Together with heart-wrenching tides of pain
A sea of battles with no leisure
Of joyful wins going against the grain.
I'd stitch metaphors with gleeful pride
Constructing rhythm with a bit of rhyme
I'd dabble with similes here and there
It'd be my thread on the sands of time.
But when I see my life as it is now
How different it is from my lovely tale
It retains its mystery, some agony
A once-green crop grown dead and stale.
A lost yarn of mistakes and pitfalls
With regret binding the threads as one
Repeated faults with no known structure
A once-free verse that is trapped, undone.
So I'll cast away my dream of a life
In a graveyard as a forgotten goal.
Some dreams never come true, it seems
Just like some lives will never be whole.
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 12:42 PM UTC
I remember the first time
I felt panic, I
Had been raised in a beautifully-constructed world of my mother’s making where I could
Take my time and step from subject to subject like hopscotch or skipping rope because I wanted to know it all
Drinking it all in, soaking in knowledge like a bath
Learning everything there was to learn
Leaving no stone unturned
No one told me I couldn’t
Swirl my fingertips in acrylics, read books on horses having *** at age seven because I wanted to be a veterinarian, hit the soprano notes though I was an alto, crush dandelions into healing potions, create a world on a stage with crying child actors, nick cardboard boxes and clocks because I knew I could move time backwards
Then I grew up and
The grown-up world was not so forgiving
Examinations, papers, time clocks, meetings, expectations I could not meet with the excellence my soul craved
I can’t breathe
Fear had a choke-hold on my throat
My mouth would dry, then wet as my stomach swirled and groaned with nausea
My hands turned into ice picks
My heart screamed like a jackhammer in concrete
Every possible worst-case, best-case, win-win, lose-lose, lose-win scenario would rush and overthrow my amygdala like a union mob besieging an abusive factory that never closes, never lets them rest
I didn’t realize it was because the only way to do it all and be it all and hit every deadline and finish every task was to sacrifice perfection, to become average, mediocre
Assimilate
And I learned the truth
That that was all the world expected of me anyway
You see there is no patience for anything else in the real world
I can’t breathe
I have no emotion, only thought processes
Paralyzing, debilitating clash between suppressed desires to take my time, create, innovate, learn and the overwhelming need to
Focus, decide, move faster, work harder, be on time, be better, please everyone, be everything
Be nothing
To where the only choice is let go of that part of yourself or go insane
So I shed my skin like it was a sin I was leaving behind
Just to survive
Without the headaches, the heartbreak, ripping my hair out over stupid little mistakes
It’s taken this long to find it in my closet again
To not be afraid
Of the soul it takes to
Perfect
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 5:15 PM UTC
The perfectionist loves to hear his voice,
He is the respected critic inside,
He is the learned one,
The educated and the educator.
A beautiful constructor,
The finishing touch
To the artist's hand.
The voice is always a partner,
He will always be there to help
The artist, comfort is taken in his ability.
The artist needn't forget,
There are many voices on the side,
Awaiting for their time to speak,
Each one has its time,
All varying in their patience and duration.
The artist sees what he hasn't before:
The voice of support; the voice of love; the voice of decision; and the voice of passion.
There is always time to contemplate his flaws
And he wants to reassure himself:
Perfection is not a demand, but a quest,
One of beauty and one of joy.
Perfection is the beauty in imperfection.
The pursuit of achievement is one to relish, it is not to be rushed or
Ceased, it is a running walk, a walking run, a sitting stand, a moving still.
It is every step he has made.
The artist looks behind and sees
His effort, he is proud to have experienced
His triumphs and his trauma
The voice of comfort will be there all the way,
She is a gentle quieter spirit that deserves as much an ear.
When all voices have calmed and subsided,
Her tenderness remains.
I remind the artist of his friends,
I remind him that the critical voice is the voice of nature,
The physical laws unchanged.
He is the driving force to stasis and movement in the age worry and indecision.
"Do not be overwhelmed" I say to the artist,
You are one of many.
You are with friends.
The voice of change encourages the artist to evolve and to smile,
The voice of happiness allows peaceful living and awareness.
The tiger belongs to nature,
not to be feared, but to be respected
and understood.
Do not despair, do not relinquish hope,
Hope is the shining beacon in a world of anguish.
Hope is the angel shining her torch ever so bright.
Hope is the window that allows pain and suffering to see the light of day ,
Hope allows oneness.
The artist moves his brush: an effortless stroke,
A flicker of joy,
A tear in his eye.
He once was old,
Now is young.
He learns to enjoy
The work he has done,
He can now enjoy the work he does,
He is enjoying the work he is doing.
He enjoys his life.
The state of mind, it is a fickle hatchling.
Able to be pursued and persuaded,
also able to be liberated.
The artist is free,
His thoughts can pass,
His fear will subside,
His body can move,
His heart will follow
And the mind will allow.
Spirit be set free,
Bird do fly,
Artist do paint,
You,
You are.
Peace within oneself is peace with others.
The artist is brave, he is a soul that stands tall in the face of adversity,
He is a sleepless enigma in his room at night,
He is the passionate one,
The artist and his love affair with the critic outshines his charisma,
The love for the sophisticated darkness,
His love for the melodrama,
His quest for knowledge,
Perhaps the only knowledge is
Ignorance.
Blissful unawareness.
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 11:20 AM UTC
The art of hating yourself
Is not easily achieved.
It takes motavation,
Words whispered across lunch rooms,
"Ugly, fat, stupid, freak"
It takes observation,
Hours staring at the pretty faces in the magazine,
Hours of trying hard to be something else
Hours feeling more lost then when you started.
It takes practice,
Feeling insecure as you walk down the hallway
Refusing food during the day,
doing crunches by night.
And of course it takes a certain type of person
For it to really take over the mind
A perfectionist
A person with a bad past or a uncertain future
A girl who blames herself
A girl who knows its her fault
If you are truly serious
about embarking on this journey,
This journey of unsatisfaction and secrecy,
Pushing people away and always, always
Craving,
Striving,
Searching,
Starving,
Needing,
That promise of perfection,
Take a class from the master
Or two
Or three
She's right here in town
The most dedicated and driven
The best of the best
She has cultivated
The Art of Hating herself
And she's the person I see in the mirror
Staring right back at me
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC
the way i smiled outside
is the opposite of how i cry inside
the pain left me hanging
i couldn’t take it anymore
the pressure they all gave me
the thoughts and misconceptions
the society fed me
kept being toxic
all my efforts
were nothing but trash
i seemed unnoticed
and silently i waited for someone
to hear how much myself peaked at
that metal mask that hides
my identity
i talked about my flaws
at the mirror
shouting how much
sorrow i’ve been through
seeing my bloodshot red eyes
kept me wondering
am i that pitiful?
i am that small thing
in the big perfectionist world
i couldn’t accept myself
so i torn it apart
and left every bits and pieces
of the real me
i kept using all these
makeups skincare pills
just to hide the past
but it wasn’t enough
the expectations were as high as the skies
and i was on earth
i put all my best
but it still wasn’t enough
the oceans in my eyes
shows how much i’ve suffered all throughout
the years of judgement in the pits of hell
i am sorry for being sad
been always sorry
will always be sorry
for being who i am.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 9:34 AM UTC
What does the perfectionist do
When they realize
Perfection
Is an illusion.
When everything they've strived for
Is rendered
Futile.
All for not.
When there's nothing left
To achieve
The only thing to do
Is give up.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
Do it again
Over and over
Redo and retry
But you need to get it right perfectionist
No more slacking
But not that there ever was
150% 24/7
Aren't you tired?
No
Shouldn't you give up for now and try later?
No
Why?
Because I need it to be perfect right now
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 1:55 PM UTC
A **** perfectionist.
You're as old but isn't as wise as an abacist.
You fight for wrong, naive absolutist.
You think you're much of an academist,
**** dumb perfectionist.
Get crazy on other's tiny errors,
Then shrug off your own,
Say "nobody's perfect" as an excuse,
That's getting old, you're fooling nobody,
You **** dumb perfectionist.
Your two-faced mask is broken to bits and pieces,
Yet you still pretend you're the wise one.
Nobody's fooled by your feeble act!
At least, not me anymore,
You **** dumb perfectionist.
All you boast with is money!
Don't get me wrong,
I won't kneel and kiss your feet.
You blind others with cash and bling,
'Cause you can't live on your own.
You're supposed to be my role model
But what in you is close enough to be?
Procrastination? Foul mouth?
Wait— you already taught me to be worse than you,
You **** dumb perfectionist.
Clamor all you want,
I don't care anymore.
You can't blind me with what you have,
You can't turn me to what I'm not,
You **** dumb perfectionist!
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 10:56 AM UTC
Conceited
I have the body of a god
I must confess
And if I dress,
I dress to impress.
Charismatic
and liberal with the charm
Looking for a woman
to be on my arm
I'm a perfectionist
I'm perfect you see
I assure you none
equal to me
I talk to the mirror,
vanity is great
I'm the one people love
and love to hate
I've been through life
and never defeated
That's just a few reasons
why I'm conceited.
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 1:18 AM UTC
Please,
If you would,
Be my mother,
Let me be your daughter,
And not see me as your second chance at life.
Please,
If you would,
Don't see me,
Don't look at me,
And hope that I'd grow up to be like you.
I don't mean to be rude,
I am not insulting,
I am speaking my opinion,
On how you rub off me,
I don't mean anything.
But,
I want you to accept,
that I can't be what you planned,
Though you're a perfectionist,
I understand.
Let me be me,
please,
just love
accept,
that I am almost a complete opposite of you.
I want you to accept,
so I don't disappoint you,
I am uoy,
Though I am your daughter,
I am me.
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 9:50 AM UTC
Neat.
That was how it always was with her.
Everyday she tried to make perfect.
She will try,
she will try hard for things to be alined.
Her life is ***** and spam.
For her,
Perfection isn't this far off thing like it is for us,
Its right over the hill for her,
Around the corner.
Maturity is within all of her decisions.
There seems to be no mistakes in the way she lives.
Sophistication is in her voice.
For her she can only step forward,
There is no going back.
A bitter world she attempts to make great.
She will try until the very last sunset.
Til her body gives her no more energy.
Everything must be precise.
She is a perfectionist.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 5:53 PM UTC
i am convinced now that
no passion exists
like that between
a man and his craft.
no love
like the love for solitude,
by which one can enter
a world all his own,
and plunge to its unfathomable depths,
carelessly disregarding his return.
no quest otherwise compares-
oh how could it?
when countless years of history
can never be retold,
never be reenacted
with different players and different settings?
a man plays a role for
a day, a month, a year, a decade,
then withers in the sun, a palm in the desert.
no amount of memories can be remade,
and no amount of care is remembered.
he is destined only to be vessel of loneliness
for others to mistakenly join and unjoin.
but in his craft
a man loses himself.
he has only his love to invest
and only his love to be returned.
when stricken with failure
he selfishly laps it all up,
gathers it close to his heart,
and holds it as treasure, locked and filed.
he searches for the bottom with lighted torch,
the end with relentless fervor,
finds no evil along the way to be a hindrance,
has no expectation dashed and destroyed.
his eagerness for success drives him deeper.
his delusions of grandeur,
perpetually emboldened.
come find me, i am waiting for you
the solitude beckons him into its fissure,
the cleft in the crust of civilization,
indescribable and hardly intelligible to others.
yet its perfection is infinite as the stars are remote.
with enthusiasm does a man pursue that perfection,
does he pray to be with that god,
Lord of his life and Giver of his breath.
he is a post for flags to be hung,
seen only by those who wander the same mountains,
searching for a chasm of their own.
he is unaided in his walk with the stars,
windowless and guided by celestial phosphorescence.
a man needs silence,
darkness beneath his eyelids,
and space in his bed to breathe.
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
Go ahead and paint a picture of perfect
time slips between our fingers
like my tongue slipped between my lips
to say something stupid
politicians are sleeping soundly atop the knife
metal to the floor
pick up speed
pick up bad habits
linoleum is easy enough to clean
but khakis stain like a *****
but if you want to sell me your deepest darkest dream
I’ll haggle with you all night long
we give birth to Cobras and give them to the hungry mongoose
put me on the blacklist
my white flag is stained with blood and grey matter
but everybody in their right mind wants to get a chance
to walk through wrong altered perceptions
I stole your dream catcher
and I’m writing novels about your hopes
and faults and I track your arteries
along the fault lines of imaginary continents
is this insanity?
it’s easier said than done
play chicken with my train of thought
spine is steel is cowardice is machismo
put me under your microscope
tell me what’s wrong
I’ll give you a doodle on the back of a napkin
and a shoddily put together love poem
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
"I painted a picture today"
I'm hoping it inspires people in a similar way that my poetry does
No ! I hope it does more than that
I've scrutinised and criticised it from all angles
Til my energy drained
It's of a sunset
The colours are vivid n just right "or are they"?
My local gallery's displaying it at a fair price or is it?
I'm not sure if it's hanging in the best place?
Does that matter?
It's taken a long time to complete
I'm surprised they thought it was good enough ?
I am my harshest critic
A perfectionist ......
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
I've never seen someone like you,
Who are you, an aborigine from perfect land...
You crush me down,
You tear me apart,
You break my confidence,
The more I try, the ruder you get.
The stronger you tear me down.
To err is human, but not so for you.
You think your perfect, well I'm sorry to prove you wrong.
Believe in perfection, try your hand at it first,
Then, and only then try your hand at others.
* Personalised and Improvised *
* Evolves to ones likeness *
* Reflects who you are *
* Father of practice *
* Efficient when a true friend *
* Creative and rewarding *
* Time consuming *
* Institution of creative minds *
* Openness to change and *
* Never devastating. *
Faith is mine, and uncertainty is yours.
Trust is from humans, disbelief for aborigines.
Love for the heart, hatred for the mind.
Completeness in all its goodness is mine,
Perfection with all its imperfection is for none but you.
We try and you wreck us down,
You try and we break apart.
Let nature take its own time and heal the wounds,
Caused by the imperfect perfectionist.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 10:17 PM UTC
silly siren
perfectionist nymph
lay languid
adjusting to the realm
of awkward itching
manic laughter
frenzied fictions
where the dead lay awake
a miniscule matter
both sailing in ***** grey
and laying in wait
on one end
a microcosm
opens to infinity
and any further action
is unnecessary
and tepid
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
Uniformed in creative black
Marlboro scented
Wonderstruck
Deliberately
Deliberate
Random
Pixie haired
Angel eyed
& brave
Daring herself to be
Enchantingly urbane
Zeitgeisty
Considerably
Considered
Aware
Pale skinned
Quaintly styled
& risky
A portfolio perfectionist
Absorbing influences
Ferociously
Delicate
Delicately
Persuasive
Scarlet lipped
Crystal tipped
& scared
Feb 17, 2011
Feb 17, 2011 at 6:43 AM UTC
so what, they're slobs, but at least they're not cannibals... then again, maybe they are too, although i haven't seen it... then again i only write within an empirical disciplination... and i have seen these pecking cannibals... maybe it's an innate feature in all animals, then again these chickens were domesticated, there was no shortage of food, then again maybe it's some version of a religious tendency: translated directly into christianity... poetic cannibalism is not exactly my choice of events that follow a book written by kant; after seeing those chickens cannibalise that head of the sacrificed hen, and sipping the blood, while the head was still agitated into movement by the oozing out of electric currents... you know... i still managed to eat that chicken broth.
i don't understand this critique of pigs...
i have relatives living in the countryside...
and i was once upon a time engaged
in catching a chicken,
and upon the stump of wood
her head was chopped off...
why complain about pigs being "filthy"
when chickens behave like cannibals,
no, actually: chickens are cannibals,
the corpus was taken into the house,
while the remaining chickens sipped,
picked and nibbled the decapitated head
of a chicken to a non-existence...
bewildering, pigs are seen as filthy creatures...
finally, god is the counter-perfectionist
who sees some sort of imperfection
in his lie...
i don't mind a ***** animal...
but i've just seen chickens become cannibals
once one of their own gets its head
chopped off, and they congregate, peck
at the decapitated head and sip pecking
the running blood on the stump of oak...
huh?! pigs are bad...
yeah right... you haven't seen what chickens
do then one of their charles the 1sts gets
the chop.
Sep 23, 2017
Sep 23, 2017 at 6:38 PM UTC
I don't pick my skin,
Pluck my hair
Or number things.
I wash my hands
Many times a day,
But I don't check doors
Or count footsteps.
I set the alarm,
But I don't re-set;
I'm meticulous
But not perfectionist.
I'm self-critical,
Not self-loathing,
I'm proud of my kids,
But I'm not doting.
There's one thing
I'm obsessed with:
To be in your heart
Every minute you live;
To touch you
Before leaving a room,
Have you wash over me
Under all the moons.
I'm not looking for a cure,
I love my disorder.
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 10:09 AM UTC
A life dedicated to serve both God and Man,
A Srilankan beauty with an Indian fragrance.
Came into my life like a sweet soft melody,
Teaching me the Doh, Reh, Meh of music and the depth of life.
A pianist, a perfectionist, a disciplinarian;
A teacher, a friend and a sister.
As I reached great heights and moved on,
You remained in the shadows like the wind beneath my wings.
The creator has called you back,
To enchant his paradise with your music;
Knowing that your memory will echo,
In every note of music we hear!
Feb 28, 2011
Feb 28, 2011 at 5:24 AM UTC