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.

Terence Tuhinanshu

Terence Tuhinanshu

poet. thinker. designer. developer. citizen of the world.