Obsession

Jul 14

The tug to be perfect, giving in to the crave,
Everything in its place in my own little cave.
It began with nothing, merely making something right,
Now all of a sudden it's something I fight.

It seems nothing could ever be exactly as it should.
A mind that is peaceful? I wish I could.
Each item in place, set a particular way,
It's getting harder and harder to keep these urges at bay.

The strive for perfection, always anxious and tense.
Only at my very best can I sit on the fence.
Even then it is strenuous, for no balance exists,
When it comes to these urges I cannot resist.

I wish I could explain what this feels like for me.
If I can't be perfect why can't everything else be?
From the outside it's crazy, but I don't know if you can tell,
Inside it's just me, suffering a torturous hell.