Everybody has an obsession:
perfection is simply mine.
At the limit of imagination
flawlessness quietly shines.
An imperative rule to follow,
impossible to escape or deny.
Inside I feel empty and hollow,
restless, anxious, and awry.
Powerless against the desire
to want better, to want more.
More heat than in a forest fire,
more water than Western shores.
Chasing an unattainable dream
to ends of the very Earth
only to simmer and sear and scream
at the futility of birth.
I will never be perfect to me,
nor anything else, in fact.
An improvement is often likely,
depending on how I react.
The only consolation there is
in this pointless exercise
is producing something imperfect
in front of my very eyes.
