The Harshness Of Perfection Upon Regret
The Harshness Of Perfection Upon Regret I am relentless in the expectations of myself. Harsh you might say, the unwillingness to ever say anything is at my best. Always pushing my boundaries, but this desire, this need to always be striving for the next challenge, for this perfect picture of victory. Thwarts the happiness that lies with me. I fail in the honoring of my sacrifices, my accomplishments, which leaves me burdened, hollow in each victorious stride. It leaves me in a petrified state of being underachieved. That nothing I do is worthy of my praise nor others. I cloud myself in a vast empty hall, cold with breath, as I pull words from thin air. Hoping these will be the words that excite me. The words that will drive me to the bliss I seek. But this anatomical rock of life agitates me of any wishes to sit still. To confine myself to the pleasures of my doings, too much is at hand. And time stands still for no man. And I, regretful of my past, still hang ...