perfectionism
This heart of mine
Has always had a condition
Called perfectionism\
Hours and hours
Poured over less than an hour of work
That inevitably, yields
Mere meagres\
Hey, me of the present
You're not a writer
Nor a poet neither a singer
There's nobody waiting on you
There's nobody judging you\
The pieces of your soul
That into these works you pour
Will go unseen, misunderstood
Except for those people
That you share those pieces with\
So why do you crush your verses
Be it under your shoe, or the delete button
Let your mistakes flow
Into a river of imperfections
Moving beyond a horizon unseen\