LOST
When I was young
And wild and joyful,
I met a mystic sage
She had a dark and golden heart
And promised me endless light
Being greedy and wanting
more happiness
I barely listened to her
song
And blithely followed her
As she spiraled down
To uplift you,
She told me,
I will take you
through the
Deepest darkness
Blackest blight
Searing sadness
And when you rise
you will break the
Surface
Like a swimmer
Bursting into the light
Following her down,
I became lost
in infinite night
in piercing pain
in tireless tragedy
Without the sage,
Doubt and Panic
overtook me
knowing I would
never be the same
But I fought,
lost
Going up
Going down
And up and down
Again and again
And years passed
this way
As I fought to break
the surface
And sometimes I thought
I saw the light
Other times
I was soaked in darkness
And each time
I was near
The light
I healed a little
And then I
realized
The light was not
Joy
But
Wisdom
Inspiration
Lost
Perfectionism is
spotless white gloves,
freshly fallen snow,
unblemished porcelain skin.
But perfectionism
is parallelizing
when you're in
its grip
And inspiration
becomes mere
Respiration
Perfectionism is
the hammer that comes down
on the nail,
the noose that hangs,
the seal on the coffin,
Perfectionism is
drowning in your
own idealism
Unable to
reach my ideals
Inspiration
becomes mere
Respiration
Perfectionism
has stopped me,
death by asphyxiation
by a Tyrant
of my own making
And when can I breathe
just a ... little
I wonder
Who decides what perfect is?
For if beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
perfect can take on many forms,
leaving it amorphous
The answer cannot
be
stopping
or
Holding tight to harrowing idealism
but
finding away
to
Exist between the lines
To allow mere respiration
To become inspiration
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