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.