• For what worth could I trade
    This flaw for more perfection?
    Introspective gabble
    Frosts my cake
    Much lighter;
    Turn about the pressure
    Just to make myself
    Seem better.
    When in fact it's
    Just emptier.
    Scarier.
    Effective facade
    That cannot boast.

    You see:
    People expect this of me,
    As statistic
    For failure.
    To surmount to nothing.
    I am held by my fingertips,
    Wedged of air and land
    And no grip therein.
    How much more would I
    To wings grow.
    How much more would I
    To love show,
    Than die
    A lonely statistic.