It's hilarious to me
Of the nature I must be
To be perpetually dissatisfied
When all I do is succeed.

It may seem ridiculous to all
The complaints I withdraw,
When what I should so clearly see
Is what's in front of me -
An expanse of my own opportunity.

And yet,
And yet, and yet and yet and yet and yet and yet and yet...
It never was so simple to drum up what should be;
It never was so simple as to agree with what I could not see.
I simply had to believe my truths,
Whilst I had known none other than this ensnaring, enrapturing toxic meditation.

How can I be so transfixed by my own edges and folds -
Is this arrogance? Is this supreme vanity?
I transport myself so often to this place and the conclusion never changes,
Why do I never improve?
Why do I still fall to this place so often?
Am I built to fail, or am I just failing at what has been given to me?

I ask too much of myself.
I expect too much of myself.
I would fulfill more if I was not so obsessed with my shortcomings.

The trouble is obsession,
Obsession with my flaws.
The trouble is that voice,
That screaming cacophony impossible to ignore,

The problem is that silence,
That silent suffering I must endure,
The problem is myself,
And the problems I create when I am none other than a human, an average soul doing this because he's bored.
© Crisp