Perfect became passion, and from there all I lost
Became a number too high for any cost.
Enjoyment and pleasure are drowned in the sea
Of this black-and-white picture of what I can be.
My world is spiraling shut around me,
As skill after skill is lost in the breeze.
Avoidance is religion to this anxiety,
A cult of perfection that claims everything.
It breaks the lens of my ears and my eyes
And tells me my flaws through lie after lie.
I may be right, but to me I am wrong,
And the tears claim all, from poem to song.
Most tell me to fight and defend my own,
But I have no weapons; I only have hope.
So today I run, and tomorrow as well,
Someday, I pray, I will fight for myself.