the image of perfection is never perfect
but yet here i am hating myself for not achieving the unattainable
thinking that somehow i’m not trying hard enough
i’m not sure if that’s low self esteem or straight up narcissism
that i of all beings could be perfection if i just tried hard enough
impossible but still in the realm of possibility
but my permanent scars, cellulite, blemish’s, and melanin
tell a different story
perfection simply isn’t me
yet i still expect myself to accomplish it
my poems feel empty
like i’m not saying what i need to
every rhyme forced
every metaphor cliché
every thought coerced into some beautiful melody
but every verse was left unsung
my poetry:
remnants of the shell of a person i used to be
i clinged to some false sense of realty
simultaneously aware that nothing good could ever come to be
but as lamb lead to slaughter
i forced myself to succumb to the darkness
i drowned myself in sadness
silently begging for someone to save me
why couldn’t anyone see me?
my wrists told my sorry for me
only no one cared enough to listen
but didn’t I bring myself here
i lead myself to this massacre
how could i expect anyone to care
because this was only fair
