Reader,

Whilst I had promised myself to refrain from posting any more original poems, I just could not help myself. With my looming mock examinations, university offers and my recently discovered interview at my greatly-desired first choice university, I was seemingly beginning to struggle with my demanding schedule. Upon trying to juggle all of my tasks at hand, my latest book review clearly cascaded to the ground and only caused a an immense amount of stress as I tried to pick it back up. However, such feelings of anxiety are the type to fuel my morbid poetic heart, thus spawning a highly personal response, deriving from the crushing weight of responsibility. For my fellow perfectionists out there, this one is for you. Perfection is an unattainable concept. Don’t worry. That’s okay.

A Letter To Myself. -an original poem

There is a paper weight on my chest, crushing

It holds me down as I try to deflect

The sweet bullets from your lips, my lips

And the pain I reflect

 

Like a mirror of self hate

I gasp in the midnight blue, as I become the subject

Of the toxic thorns, that the rose does grow

My soft, scarlet petals I choose to neglect

 

I am sighing, searching, holding out for you

Now ‘you’ is not who you’d expect

Not the fleeting imbeciles in my life

And my gasps for air that they failed to detect

 

You is I, although I have strayed from myself

The path is still winding and my route indirect

I never did walk the easy road

But the past I cannot perfect

 

And my words they do sting

As they aim to infect

Burying themselves like termites under my skin

Reminding me that perfect is an unattainable concept.

 

Sincerely,

Yourself

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