Perfection
It's a shroud that blankets me—
A black-stitched curse of qualms.
It blinds designs that might be
Not simple like offering alms.
I know I must aim for perfection.
My Savior taught that as fact.
But I struggle finding direction
In a shroud that defies me to act.
Some suppose it's a blessing
A perfectionist to be clothed.
But truth betrays such dressing,
And I mark it justifiably loathed.
Efforts are forever insufficient,
Ill-suited in numberless ways.
I treat my tries not proficient
And reprimand myself for days.
If I dare speak in public settings
A comment, or idea, or prayer.
My reward is rife with regrettings—
I perceive I had nothing to share.
No, it's not my listeners' failing.
They are patient, gracious, and fair.
My perfectionist psyche is flailing
Inside a shroud a burden to bear.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
