The Plague of Perfection

Isn’t it curious  

that our own worst enemies 

are ourselves? 

That we,  

as strong we are, 

as mighty we stand,  

tear ourselves asunder  

due to the lack of perfection? 

It must be perfect 

The mind is a strange thing,  

so intelligent,  

yet so self-destructive. 

to save my humanity. 

So creative,  

yet lacking imagination,  

in which the glory of life  

no longer has its appeal. 

My sacred oath 

To those who must achieve everything 

and more with an unrelenting,  

unshakable will. 

is suffocating my mind.  

This plague of perfection, 

so beautiful 

yet so destructive. 

I’m so tired. 

Fragmentations of void call,  

which encourages the sweet melody,  

writhing and sifting  

until it sits upon your shoulder. 


The gentle weight foreign, 

almost familiar, 


caressing your ears,  

sighing in contentment  

as it nestles into your mind, 

spreading its soothing song.   

And then  

you are lost. 


The yawning void  

was quick to welcome,  

akin to the embrace of an old friend.  

You are no friend. 


It sighed,  

ever content. 

This is no home of yours. 

Deafening silence 

molds the world. 

Get out. 

Nothing will ever emerge. 

Help me.   

Ancient chains surround you, 

bound to the ground. 


They link themselves, 

the weight now upon you. 


There is no escape my dear. 

I will make you perfect. 

Ignorance is bliss,  

they say. 

I will make them perfect. 

Perhaps ignorance, 

ever so pleasant,  

would be better  

than the murky darkness,  

always poised, 

It is a perfect friend.  



Everything I touch shall be perfect. 

Yielding the unrelenting guard,  

your mind is clear. 

I am perfect.