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i don't know for sure what perfection is, no one does.

but i can suspect it's the never-ending struggle to be more than who we are,
a non-existent ideal that plunges you into a pit of woe-is-me.
the cycle of the 'am-i-good-enoughs' and the 'please-notice-mes'.
a grasping root of high standards, set by others yet achieved by none.

the very idea is a corrupt manifestation of insecurities and self pity,
waking up and reaching for the sky that isn't there.
even if you stand on the bed and jump, just beyond your grip as you grab aimlessly,
it might only be an illusion, though a 'curse' seems more apt.

a deceptive mirage that spells disappointment,
like buying the lottery ticket and hearing your numbers being called.
getting excited until the sinking feeling,
'fuck me, this is last weeks ticket'.

i once believed in 'perfection',
but you can't spell believe without 'lie'.