(Title not capitalized in places because I'm using irony and poetic liscence.)


The stress that comes 'round
When I realize that nothing is perfect
deteriorates my longing to be someone who just is - 
I crave being stellar at even one trade - 
master the art of one way of life, like the
musicians in band, who have studied for years 
the artists in town who devote their whole lives to painting, 
the writers who dedicate days on end to finishing a heart-and-soul piece of work...
But I can't even paint my fingernails
without a smudge, or several aesthetically displeasing flaws.
(the prime example that "perfect" is just a word, in my case.)
Emphasis placed on my lack of substance, 
a lost wanderer looking for home -
The stress that comes 'round
when I'm even looking for just a best friend
to love all of my missing pieces.
Perfection is just a word,
...but I just want a taste.