The trouble with perfectionism
Is living up to your own reputation
After life and adulthood catch up to you
And you know you can’t be perfect anymore.
It’s not a self-fulfilling prophecy,
It doesn’t win you many friends.
You look around one day,
After years of putting on a show
And realize they were all audience,
That now the show is over –
The stage is struck, the curtains drawn –
The theater is empty
And you’re walking home alone.
What is there that’s real in this life?
How much imperfection is enough
To make you human?
How do you make friends,
Anyway, without feeling like
It’s just another show?
Where do you find the people
Who will tell you:
You don’t have to be
Wonderful here.
You can just be who you are.
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