The country of content

Perfection.

It is a glass,

Marked as half empty,

On our soul,

By others,

Seeking what,

We cannot be.

Idealized,

Fractured,

Turned from who we are,

Into some cartoon,

Of ourselves,

For want of being,

Seen as whole,

Complete.

We are the ones,

Turned away,

For others folly,

In seeing not,

The vibrant,

Living, being.

Instead,

To be asked,

Why we are not,

The things,

Another person needs.

Perfection,

Is not the seeking,

Of some joy,

In new discovery,

And seeing worth,

In difference.

It is,

Destruction,

Death,

The isolation,

Of a soul,

Through unfulfilled,

Demands.

It is,

The closing of,

The door,

On life,

That has been lived,

And struggled with,

For petty,

Reason.

It is,

The death of other.

For while rejector,

Moves to pastures new,

And seeks again,

Rejected stands,

Alone,

Unable now to reach,

Their country of contentment,

As failure marked,

For not achieving,

Another spirit’s,

Dreams.

images

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