perfectionist complex

i actually wrote this a while ago but when i read it back i still actually kind of enjoyed it (fancy that!), so here is a poem about perfectionism and the harsh realities of being a creator.

dissatisfied and ashamed is the perfectionist kind;

the one whose heart cannot connect with one's own mind.

everything is wrong, and if not wrong, it could be better

she longed to settle for "good enough",

but her inner critic wouldn't let her.

tell her the difference between expert and beginner,

and watch as her patience slowly wears thinner and thinner.

perfect the art of literacy, settle for that and nothing less.

a better wording, a better rhyme;

she has perfection to express.

self-loathing is not uncommon in a world that yearns for the ideal,

so dare i say convince her that true perfection isn't real.

for there is nothing left,

in her mind, 

she has fled.

there is nothing else to strive for.

her creativity is dead.

Reviews

[Dust That Drifts Throug..]

You nailed this poem about what it's like to be a perfectionist.

[Gee]

Liked this very much. Many on here will relate, write,edit,edit,edit, oh f**k it, post. Revisit, edit, edit and so on. Then there are those who apply this in their search for a partner, boy, how disappointed they become.