Gnawing, Eating away.
The voice that's never satisfied.
Demanding the best,
Never relenting.
Anything short,
Slightly under mountainous expectations,
and it won't let you sleep.
People compliment you,
'Good job',
'I'm Proud of you',
But it won't let you hear.
'They're wrong!'
it hisses, regaining control of your mind.
So you shrug them off,
Try to prove to them you're useless,
Make them see.
But they never do,
Never will.
How could they?
They don't have the voice,
the judging, hateful gloom,
They're free.
While you remain in chains,
Until the chains become unnessecary,
And it has complete control.
You can't think for yourself,
Can't feel good about your performance,
Your reflection,
Your score,
Or anything else you do or have that means the world to you. So you climb and climb,
trying to reach expectations set too high,
To reach perfection.
But no one is perfect,
So you'll never make it.
You'll die climbing if you don't beat it back,
That voice in your mind.
Believe me, I know.
My body still lives, but my mind is dead.
I lost the fight,
I will never be satisfied,
Never do anything right in my eyes.
By the way, The perfectionist in my mind,
The voice controlling my own,
Says this poem sucks.