T.a.k.e. .C.o.n.t.r.o.l

Buried under growing ideals

Too perfect to even try to live up to

Growing pressure, the line

You once held tight in your hand

Is about to snap.

All the meticulously created

Lies, explode as I spit in your face.

Step outside the confining box

Never be swayed by you again.


Freedom, at last.

Too long have you kept me prisoner

With your restraing words,

Disapproving glares.

Too many times have you said,

Why can't you be more perfect?

Too long have I waited

To quench my curiosity.

Imperfection is not the absence of beauty