Perfection is desperation,
A call to be not human.
To be famed but not to speak,
As shackles to your living need.
Living becomes thus a hollow tree,
Thus there, noticed but never absent,
To be that perfect you.
Hollow, abstracted, muted, never able to say…
Why this way?
Why that way?
And thus then you’ll realize—
That when the eclipse shows its face,
And you’re broken,
Your desperation to feed on compliance vanishes.
And you realize—
You’re human, not a machine.