a pensive look upon my pale face
slow motion; closing my eyes- condemning myelf
a question staggers about in front of me
'why do you insist on perfection?'

i am so moral
so chaste
so holy
that's what i want them to think
(worship me)
but i am so crude
so dirty
so troubled
i know that they are akin to me

i'm reaching for the flowers
that stand so sweet and pure
{on the top shelf}
i am not tall enough
i lift myself up
but i cannot reach
i find no assitance, no stool to
lift me up
and so

i fall
i read my kin's minds as they speak to me/they won't sing/they shout and growl/they're not as pretty as they seem/all so bloodydirty{real}

no one has that stool
and no one,
not one of us
can reach those flowers
as we look up to them,
fresh and lovely dew drips
drips on down from them
and falls upon our lips
(lick and taste and crave it more)
a taste,
a taste is all we receive
nothing more,
nothing more will we recieve
forever in this world we'll be blind
never in this world will we see

my wishes and hopes for them, more so for myself
are exorbitant; excessive-
are unreasonable; unreachable-
and these tirades and lectures and speeches
(in my mind)-
did i not do the same deeds yesterday?
did i not do the same deeds only today?
and i shall do the same deeds tomorrow
{riding sinfully towards the morrow}

i'll sit on the floor
(dare i say; might i say; perhaps i'll say- jaded)
watch them, watch them, watch them watch me
those cursed flowers- they haunt me-
and with a pensive look
upon this pale, pale face
{slow motion} close dark and dry and glazed eyes
use-a gun
(borrowed from the flowers;
they so eagerly gave it to me)
and shoot that staggering question {put it out of my misery}
let it rest there


why do you insist
on perfection?