Raven hair, you might fly away,
Misty eyes, won’t cry today,
Standing tall on a weak frame,
Hungry, to get a taste of fame.
Is there any glamour
In hearing the clamor?
The voices in your head
Calling out before bed,
That you could have done better?
Is there any glory
In the torn pages of your story,
Text yellowed with age,
If only you weren’t locked in your own cage.
What’s that, burning,
Stomach-turning,
Useless rage?
Yell all you need,
No one takes heed.
Sensitive mess!
You are no more, but perhaps even less.
Fight those thoughts you feel.
What’s their purpose, are they real?
What’s the goal
In watching these storms, taking their toll?
Remember, you were destined for greatness?
Now you lie here, utterly faithless!
I hope you enjoyed this intimate tryst,
Into the mind of a perfectionist.
Hidden Jules 